


Nowhere is Safe

by Chippier



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cognitive Dissonance, Conspiracies, Domestic Fluff, EWE, Fluff, Future Fic, Implied Mpreg, Inter-School Exchange Student Programs, International Wizarding Organizations, Kids, M/M, Married Life, Pet Names, Slice of Life, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3362630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chippier/pseuds/Chippier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[On Hiatus] Harry Potter finally draws the line between his duty to his family and his duty to the wizarding world. With his one and only love and children in mind, he refuses to be, once again, a symbol and a weapon in a brewing war that just might decide the secrets of the wizarding world. Secret organizations, foreign student-exchange programs, sons falling in love, bitter ex-girlfriends, cognitive dissonances, conspiracies, and a sweet little blonde aside, is Harry right in thinking that he is enough to keep Draco and their sons safe?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fic here in AO3 (-- and what do you say in notes at the beginning?). This story consists of long chapters and a slow build, since I like paying attention to my characters' feelings and character development is plot. I like imagining what Draco and Harry's lives after the war would seem like, and this fiction was birthed because of that. I hope you enjoy it-- especially the occasional fluff, because as much as I really like angst later on, I really love fluff.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not blonde, English and 49-- and I don't own Harry Potter.

Harry Potter’s life is not perfect, but he is happy. This is what he is thinking as he lies on his bed during the early hours of a Sunday morning with his husband sleeping peacefully in his arms. Draco’s head rests on his broad chest, an arm wrapped around his stomach. Harry withholds a chuckle. Draco has always been a snuggle-bug, no matter how much he denies it.

He runs his fingers again and again through his husband’s platinum blond hair; the strands are soft and silky, what with the specially brewed potions he washes it with. Draco always makes sure that everyone in their family uses them, horrified as he is that all their sons inherited the unruliness of Harry’s hair. Of course, this does not decrease the stubbornness of the boys’ hair, but keeps them soft and healthy. Draco’s mothering instincts, fortunately, is satisfied with that.

He sighs and snuggles closer to Harry, tightening his embrace. “No, Percy, sweetheart, that is enough candy for tonight,” he mumbles and Harry can’t keep his chuckles quiet anymore. A fuzzy, comfortable warmth spreads inside his chest at the thought that Draco still dreams about looking after the children. If someone have told him at Hogwarts that Draco will be a doting and caring _Papa_ , Harry would have sent that person to St. Mungo’s.

But Draco _is_ a doting and caring papa to Jamie, Score, Al, and Percy. Harry has always known that Draco is capable of loving their children more than the Slytherin thinks he can, even when they were still dating. He has been surprised, however, when Draco indeed insisted that he is able to carry all the children. The pregnancies were not easy, him being a man, but they all came through. Harry never thought it still possible, but he fell deeper in love with Draco, excited, rosy-cheeked, and expecting.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry does not notice when the source of the warmth in his chest opens his silvery eyes and looks up at him. Pale fingers reach up to touch his cheek, summoning him out of his reveries. “Harry, love, what are you thinking?”

“Nothing, love,” Harry says softly, looking down and kissing Draco’s forehead. The latter closes his eyes at the touch. “Good morning.”

“Mmm. Morning.” Draco yawns, snuggling further into the crook of Harry’s arm. “What time is it?”

Wandlessly, Harry casts a Tempus charm. Glowing numbers hover in the air. “It’s half-past six—“

“There’s still enough time to lie-in,” mumbles Draco, burying his face in the crook of his husband’s neck. He is practically lying on top of him.

Harry chuckles; at forty-two, Draco still acts soft, adorable, and needy; not that Harry minds. He and the boys are the only ones who are privileged to witness it anyway. It is, as Jamie jokes, _the_ family secret.

“I have to prepare breakfast, love,” Harry says, rubbing Draco’s back. “The boys will be up early today. You do know how excited they are that Jamie is going home from Tokyo today.”

Draco lets out what sounds like faint whine and tightens his arms around Harry’s neck.

The latter chuckles and pries Draco gently off of him. Harry gives him feathery kisses down the side of his neck while running a finger up and down his spine. Draco shivers. “I know that you’re excited to see Jamie, too, love.”

He kisses Draco languidly and the latter sighs against his lips. They break away after a few minutes; Draco rests the side of his face on Harry’s shoulder, humming contentedly. He strokes his husband’s strong, lean-muscled arms. “Then you have to make it up to me tonight, Harry. Okay?”

“It will be my greatest pleasure, love,” Harry murmurs seductively, against Draco’s hair.

“Such an absolute tease, you,” giggles Draco, pushing away from his husband. He sits up and runs his fingers through sleek but sleep-mussed platinum blonde hair. All the curtains on the floor to ceiling windows are drawn, making their large room dim. Despite this, Draco can see that the sun is barely up yet, the season being winter.

He bends over the bed to look for the night gown that Harry rid him of when he came home from a mission in Paris last night. Draco blushes at the memory as he rummages through the clothes strewn carelessly on the floor. Twenty years of marriage have not diminished the effect that Harry has on him.

He finds his white, silk night gown and puts it on. He is aware of Harry’s eyes on him; his cheeks warm up a little more.  He glares at his husband, lying on his back on their numerous pillows and displaying his Head Auror glory. The duvet covers him up to the waist and Draco knows that Harry has not put on any clothes yet. He looks away, stands up and walks into their wardrobe.

“You’re so adorable whenever you’re acting shy, love,” Harry laughs behind him.

Draco finds pajama bottoms from one of Harry’s drawers, and throws it to his husband as he walks back to the bed. “Shut up.”

Harry smirks and stands up. He stretches and winks at Draco when he sees him watching. Draco blushes but does not look away this time as his husband puts on the pajamas. Being an Auror has done Harry so much good. He has aged into a broad-shouldered and lightly muscled man; training and fieldwork has kept him trim and fit. His hair is still as messy at it has been at Hogwarts; his bright, green eyes are now framed with the more modern, rectangular glasses—at Draco’s insistence. Even at forty-two, Harry James Malfoy-Potter is one of the hottest, sexiest, and most gorgeous men in the world (a recognized fact, now that Harry also works for the Confederation of Magic Ministries). Draco does not mind this at all, except, maybe, for the fact that men and women vied for his husband’s attention.

“Like what you see?” Harry teases, walking towards his slimmer and paler husband. He wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and pulls him against him. “Don’t worry, it’s all yours, Mr. Malfoy-Potter.”

Draco sighs and nuzzles Harry’s jaw, feeling stubble scrape his skin. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and says, “You’re awfully cocky this morning, husband.”

“And you’re adorably very clingy, my dear,” Harry laughs, smelling Draco’s hair. It’s still the same citrusy and vanilla scent that he loves. The warmth in his chest has not left yet. He can swear that, entwined together in the middle of their room, they are glowing. He waves his hands once more for a Tempus Charm. The numbers display that there is still a quarter till seven.

“Mmm, only for you, Mr. Harry Potter,” Draco says. “Have I told you that I missed you? Damn those three-day transnational peacekeeping issues. The boys and I missed you in the first three days of their holiday vacation.”

Harry tightens his arms around Draco, pulling him impossibly closer. He starts swaying the two of them slowly. “You seem to have told me that many times last night, but still—love, I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs. He rests his forehead against Draco’s, looking down to meet his silvery gray eyes. They are soft with a mixture of emotions: fondness, wonder, and a love that always takes Harry’s breath away.

“Well, you’ve never outgrown your hero complex. We’re your family; we understand that,” Draco teases.

Harry laughs out loud. “I just hope that the boys have not inherited it, right?” he jokes, rubbing small circles on Draco’s lower back. _Draco’s so beautiful,_ he thinks, looking down at his husband. Draco has remained slender, all elegant limbs and aristocratic posture, unlike Harry’s more muscled build. His hair is still a sleek platinum blonde, though his face has become softer, losing its pointiness. His silvery eyes glowed with contentment and love, at least when he’s looking at Harry and the boys. _He’s always been like this, just hiding it_.

“Love, don’t you think that it’s a little too late to ask for that?” murmurs Draco mock seriously. He fights back a wide grin and another blush from tinting his cheeks, after realizing that Harry has been studying him once more with an intensity that sent butterflies in his stomach.

“Huh? What do you mean?” A crease appears between his husband’s brows.

Draco laughs, swaying with Harry. “You do realize that no one after you left Hogwarts has been a truer heir of Godric Gryffindor than Scorpius? I swear that that boy is in line to vanquish the next Dark Lord.”

Harry smirks. It has been amusing how Draco had accepted the fact that of the three sons they have sent to Hogwarts, only Albus has been sorted to Slytherin. James is a Ravenclaw, while Scorpius into Gryffindor. Percy, their four-year-old, will always tell anyone again and again the story of how the Sorting Hat has shouted (“No, Papa. It _roared!_ ”) to the Great Hall “Gryffindor” within the millisecond it touched Score’s head. Percy felt so proud of his older brother and Draco has tired of telling him off from repeating the story over and over.

Harry admits, though, that Scorpius reminds him of his younger self’s determination, courage, boldness and foolhardiness. The boy is always overprotective of his twin and younger brother—of James, too, during certain circumstances.

He tells to Draco, who smirks. “Yes, but without the foolishness, though. At least, I’m glad that our son still has some Slytherin in him. He got my intelligence, thank Merlin for that.”

Harry glares at him and nips at the sensitive spot behind Draco’s ear. The latter yelps at his attack and grips him hard around the shoulder. “ _Harry…_ ”

“Hmm?” Harry hums, continuing his nipping and sucking of Draco’s skin, giving it a love bite. Draco groans, and he unlatches his lips from the skin, smirking at the mark. “You forget, though, dear, that I was supposed to be a Slytherin, too.”

“Ad-admit it, though. You- you do not think sometimes, you absolute Gryffindork,” Draco mutters faintly, flushing. Harry starts licking at the new love bite. “Harry, love… Harry, _please,_ ” he finished breathily.

Harry laughs lowly and kisses him full on the mouth. Draco groans, tightens his arms around his husband’s neck, and kisses back hungrily. Harry urges his mouth open to deepen the kiss and Draco’s knees buckle, thoroughly weakened by the sensations of Harry’s lips, skin, and tight embrace upon him. Harry catches him.

“You meanie,” Draco scolds weakly, holding on to Harry for dear life and breathing heavily. He shivers at the feel of Harry’s stubble as the latter nuzzles the side of his face. “ _Harry._ ”

All of the sudden, he is swept off his feet and carried bridal-style in Harry’s arms. He yelps and tightens his hold around Harry. “Harry!”

Harry chuckles and briefly kisses him. Their faces are separated only by an inch; startlingly green eyes meet bright, molten silver. “I decided that I can’t wait until tonight, love. You’re too irresistible.” He nips Draco’s shoulder lightly and walks him back to their bed. Wandlessly and nonverbally, he sends a one-way Muffliato Charm and Locking Spell on their door.

Draco’s eyes shine with mirth as he bounces on the soft, king-sized bed, after Harry has thrown him in. “Insatiable are you, Head Auror Potter?” he teases, but he moves further up into the bed and lies against the pillows. Slowly, he lifts his arms backwards and grabs at the head board.

Harry’s blood boils and his heart melts at the sensuous display. He feels the warmth in his chest spread all over his body. He crawls towards Draco like a predator. “Oh, you have no idea, my _dear, lovely_ husband,” he growls lowly.

Pink tints Draco’s cheeks and he bares his throat to Harry. He basks in the warm, giddy, fluttery, and fuzzy feelings settling in his stomach.

+

Perseus Lilo Malfoy-Potter wakes up in his big, four-poster bed. His Daddy and Papa have given him his own room after his fourth birthday last July, saying that he is a big boy and can sleep apart his fathers. Percy does not mind that, but he will rather sleep between his Daddy and Papa every night; he can also keep one of them company if one of his fathers is away on a mission or business trip.

He looks for his white stuffed dragon, Hydra, and stuffed lion, Leo. They are his favorite toys, as Score and Al have told him that the two are his Daddy and Papa’s first gifts to him. His twin brothers always tell him that whenever their fathers are both on trips, the two stuffed toys will guard him. They are from Daddy and Papa, after all.

He finds Leo at the foot of the bed, while Hydra has fallen on the floor last night. He nuzzles each of them, giving them a cheerful “Good morning!” Percy jumps off the bed, and places them side by side on the pillows. He starts to make up his bed; it is a Sunday, which means that Dobby, Winky and Kreacher have their rest day and can’t clean. Besides, Percy always basks in Daddy and Papa’s proud looks whenever he does things on his own.

When he’s finished, he pats the stuffed toys on the head and says, “I’ll just clean up then I’ll check on Score and Al, okay?” He runs to his room’s adjoining bathroom and opens the tap of the sink. Carefully, Percy rubs his small hands together under the running water, cups them together, and splashes the warm water on his face, just like how he knows Daddy does it.

Eyes still closed and spluttering, he reaches for a thick, fluffy, white towel and rubs the soft material on his face. After, hanging the towel on the rack, he gets a brush and tries to flatten his unruly, ash-blonde hair. “I’ve gotta look good—at leas’ my hair—since Daddy an’ Jamie will be home today!” he says to his reflection on the vanity, while running the silver brush over his thick curls.

“An’ it does’n’ matter if it’s imperfect. Al says that I’m still cute and we all have messy hair anyway,” he continues, grinning at himself. He jumps off the stool and runs back to the bed. Careful to not ruin the sheets he has arranged himself, he sits beside Leo and Hydra, petting them. “I’ll go outside and check on Score and Al and see if we can come to Daddy and Papa’s room to tussle! _Behave, you two!_ ”

With that, he jumps out of bed, and not bothering to put on his fluffy blue slippers, Percy scampers out of his room into the one next to his. He does not bother to knock; it’s Al’s anyway, he thinks, and opens the door slowly. He peeks.

All the curtains are drawn to reveal the wide open windows and the soft, winter morning light bathes the room. On the ledge near the largest, arched window in the room, Albus Severus Malfoy-Potter sat, writing on a journal with a large white quill. He is still in his black, silk pajamas, his raven-black hair in a state similar to Percy’s.

“Al?” Percy says softly, rousing his brother from his writing. He hesitates from entering the room; he knows how precious Al’s ‘journal time’ is. Papa always says not to disturb Al whenever he is writing on the journal Daddy gave to him.

Al sees the ash-blonde mop of his youngest brother by the door and smiles. Percy has always been an early riser, just like he and Score. He turns so his back is on the window, puts down his journal and opens his arms wide for Percy. Immediately, there is a pattering of small feet as the door shuts gently, and Al laughs loudly when his arms become filled with the blonde and blue Percy.

“Good morning, you little tyke,” he says, mussing the boy’s hair, who yelps and swats his hand away.

“Don’t do that, Al!” Percy pouts, carefully picking through and uncertainly rearranging his bangs. He scowls up at Al. “I want to look _pre’ntable_ when I see Daddy again!”

Amused, Al gathers Percy in his arms and sets him on his lap. He summons a fine-toothed comb with his wand and gently stops his brother’s efforts in arranging his locks one at a time. “You’ll always look presentable to Daddy but okay—let me help you, Lil.”

“Have you woken long, Al?” Percy asks, while stilling himself as Al starts running the comb gently through his hair. He hums a little at the comforting feeling and leans back on his brother. Al always gives him gentle touches and is okay with cuddling and Percy likes that a lot.

“Not really. I’ve just been up. How about you?” Al replies, flattening his brother’s mop with the palm of his hands. He smiles when Percy jumps off his lap and runs to the vanity mirror hanging on the wall to check on his reflection. Carefully, he touches his ‘newly-styled’ hair at all angles, his pale, chubby arms arranging his creased sapphire-blue pajamas. He grins at his reflection, rounded cheeks tinted with pink. He turns to Al.

“Do I look okay then, Al?” he asks shyly. He rarely asks for anyone’s opinion on how he looks, unless it is really important to him.

“Hmm…” Al pretends to think, tapping his finger against his bottom lip. He stands up and walks around his little brother in pretend scrutiny. He holds in a chuckle when Percy starts to fidget and look uncertain. He looks up at him with wide eyes, a small pout on his lips.

“Oh, I don’t know, Lil. Do _you_ really look okay?” Al says, frowning slightly and not stopping his ‘prancing.’

The blush in Percy’s cheeks deepens and his pout becomes more pronounced. “ _AL!”_

Al chuckles as the door of his room opens. A deep voice asks, “What’s happening here, huh?”

Percy looks up and sees the other twin leaning on the door frame, frowning at the two of them. He instantly perks up and runs towards him. “Scorpius! Albus Sev’rus is a big, bad meanie!” he exclaims in his betrayed, little, babyish voice. Al giggles at Percy; he only uses his whole name when he tries to sound upset.

His twin, Scorpius, glares at him as he scoops up Percy in his arms and walks inside the room. Al just shows him a raised eyebrow and shrugs. He notices how tight Percy’s arms are around Score’s neck, and that he has buried his head in his shoulder, effectively mussing up his hair again. He holds back another chuckle.

“Why are you upset, Percy?” Score asks softly, rubbing his hand over the back of his brother. He has done this many times before. He has always stepped between ‘the bad bullies and meanies’ and his baby brother. If Al is the tutor, then he is the guard, whenever their fathers are not around. He is far from complaining, though.

Percy snuggles further into him, squirming to get closer. Then, without even looking up, he lifts up a chubby arm to point at Al, who tries and fails to keep himself from snorting. Score frowns at him, raises an eyebrow, and sits on the bed.  “What did Al do that upset you, Percy?”

The little boy leans back and looks at Score, then, with big, watery eyes, and flushed, damp cheeks. His pout is more pronounced more than ever. He places his hands on his big brother’s cheeks and sniffs, “Al is being a meanie.”

Al shakes his head and explains, “I was just joking about how he looks. He wants to look good for Daddy, apparently. I was just pretending to scrutinize him and the little tyke balked under the pressure.” He reaches out a hand to pet Percy’s hair—the side messed up by his snuggling. “I’m sorry. Do you forgive me, Lil?”

He is given a very pronounced pout and offended sniff. “You won’t do it again?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Really?”

“Really, really.”

“We won’t fight, won’t we? We won’t try hurting each other ever and only playing pranks but those fun ones only? Because we’re fam’ly and we look after one another?” Percy has said all this in a rush, repeating everything what his Daddy has always told them about what it means to be a family. His eyes look so big now and he does not look so upset.

Score and Al exchanged amused looks. “Of course. We love you, Lil,” they say together and were rewarded with a watery smile. Percy kisses Score on the nose and reaches for Al to kiss him, too.

“Well, that surely is some morning drama,” Score says, running his fingers through Percy’s messy mop.

Al regards the clothes his twin is wearing. Black shorts and tight purple running jersey. Of course, Score has been out for his routine morning runs. Even at Hogwarts, he is known to do early morning laps around the Quidditch pitch and practice his flying stunts. Scorpius seems to have inherited their fathers’ excessive (bordering on obsessive) love for Quidditch. Al has taken after Draco in his love for potions, but he does like flying, if not so much the sport.

“Fitness buff,” Al teases him, who just rolls his eyes. “I don’t think you’ll lighten your regimen any sooner even if most of the Hogwarts female population has a crush on you.”

Score glares at him. “Nerd face,” he shoots back at his twin, but not without fondness. He and Al may not exactly look alike though they are twins, but they have a lot of similarities. Al has their Daddy’s raven black hair but is slender like their Papa. Score, on the other hand, is platinum blonde, but built after Harry—slightly taller than Albus and lean-muscled. Their irises are colored silver to emerald, a case of _central heterochromia iridum_. Aunt Hermione says that it is a proof of their parents’ strong magical bond.

Percy, who is still snuggled in his chest, speaks up. “Why’d you call Al, Nerd Face, Score? You like books, too.” He leans back to look at his blonde brother’s face. “Don’t you?”

Al laughs loudly as he flops on his back on the bed, arms bent behind his head. “You’re busted, you mean Gryffindor.” He catches Percy’s eyes. “Isn’t he, Percy? He calls me Nerd Face, the meanie.”

Their baby brother pouts at Score and points at Al behind him. “You should apologize, Score. Papa would say that will be the right thing to do.”

Score smirks and whispers at Percy’s ear, “I have a better idea how we can make it up to Al, Percy.”

The little boy’s eyes widen and he whispers back conspiringly, “How?”

Score grabs him by the sides and throws him onto the bed and then tackles Al, who has been watching their exchange suspiciously. “We give Al exercise, Percy! Come on!”

With a loud giggle, Percy jumps up and down Al’s bed while giving the occasional nudge at Al’s side as Score tickles him. His dark-haired twin shrieks and writhes away from him.

“SCORPIUS MALFOY-POTTER! You git!” Al shouts, taking advantage of the speed his slender figure lends to him and jumps up on the bed. He summons his wand from the window ledge and starts charming pillows to attack his Gryffindor attacker, to Percy’s absolute amusement and delight.

“Get him! Get him! Get him, Al!”

“ _OW!_ You cheating, Slytherin! You’re using _MAGIC!_ ” Scorpius whips out his own wand and sends a Stinging Hex at Al’s toes, while casting a Shield Charm as protection from the pillows. The Stinging Hex surprises Al and sends him out of balance. He lands on the floor on his bum, which sends Percy to fits of laughter.

“Scorpius, you--!”

“Al! Al! Do the pillow thing again, please! And enlarge the bed! Enlarge the bed!” Percy squeals, jumping up and down the bed with each word.

Scorpius is still laughing at Al. “I think your Defense skills need practice, Mr. Potioneer.”

“Shut up,” Al growls, getting up on his feet and waving his wand to enlarge the bed for Percy. Scorpius chuckles and starts to conjure different colored streamers to hang all over Al’s room.  He also conjures big butterflies for Percy to chase and try to catch.

“You’re getting really better at Transfiguration,” Al comments, watching Percy jump up to catch a white butterfly as big as his face. He sits at the edge of the enlarged bed, forgetting their silly tryst a while ago. “You think you’ll get an O in your Transfiguration OWL?”

Score sits at the opposite side of the bed, making miniature fireworks erupt from the tip of his wand. He smiles at Al. “Thanks. I hope I’ll get lots of Os. You?”

Al transfigures a sheet of parchment into a bright red and green wizard’s hat and levitates it to Percy’s head. The boy squeals in delight when he saw himself on the mirror by the wall. “I hope so, too. I gave extra effort for Potions, though.”

“Like I did, with Defense,” Score says, nodding. He has always wanted to be an Auror, just like his Daddy. Al, on the other hand, wants to take a Masters in Potions. “We’ll see our OWLs today, right?”

Al nods. “Our much-prolonged-already agony ends today,” he mutters.

They do not notice that the door of Al’s room has opened until the commotion on the mattress stops and Percy squeals, _“DADDY!”_

Albus and Scorpius turn their heads towards the door so fast they are in the danger of breaking their necks. The little blonde is laughing loudly as he runs across the widened bed and jumps from it—a little too high. Their father waves his hand just in time to levitate Percy, who is now somersaulting in the air, arms reaching towards Harry. His hat falls from his head.

“I missed you, Daddy! Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Carry me, Daddy!” he giggles. Harry just chuckles and lifts Percy a little higher, to the blonde’s utter delight. He embraces Score and then Al, who have now approached him. Al, who is more comfortable in showing his affection around his family despite being a Slytherin, gives his Dad a peck on the cheek.

“Do stop that now, Dad,” he says, watching Percy bobbing like a blonde and blue ball with grabby tentacles in midair. “Papa will be angry if you ruin Lil’s stomach right before breakfast.”

Percy, who seems to have heard Al, starts chanting, “Breakfast, breakfast! Waffles, waffles, waffles. I want waffles, Daddy. Waffles! Waffles—oh!” He finds himself being caught by Harry and he instantly snuggles to his Daddy’s broad and strong chest and wraps his arms around his neck. “I missed you so much, Daddy,” he whispers in Harry’s ear, as if it is a big secret.

Harry laughs softly and rubs the tip of his nose against Percy’s. “I missed you too, little one.” His eyes roam over his face, memorizing the features he got from Draco and him. “Have you been good?” He starts walking out of the room and into the kitchen; Score and Al follow, still talking behind them.

“Daddy, did you know that vampires can drink animal blood? And _live_? I saw it on the telly!” Percy says excitedly, his bright green and silver eyes, wide and shining. “I don’t un’stand why they would kill animals, Daddy. They’re killing deer!” He pouts and stares cutely at Harry. “Isn’t that bad, Daddy? Your Partonus is a deer, right, Daddy?”

Harry chuckles—really, he can’t help but just laugh and bask in the warm feelings in his chest whenever he is at home. “It’s a stag, baby, not that it makes any difference. And you call it a Pat-ro-nus, hmm? Not Partonus.”

They reach their tiled kitchen. It is decorated with white and black tiles, with large cabinets above and below the counters, filled with muggle appliances and cooking utensils. A large, two-door refrigerator stands at a corner, near the stove and oven. Draco and Harry have made sure that their kitchen is always clean, fully-stocked, and fully-furnished early in their marriage, having found that both of them love to cook.

There is a large, rectangular table before the two counters, and Harry puts Percy down on one of the chairs charmed to have longer legs so the little boy can reach the table. Score and Al pull out and sit on their own chairs.

“Par—Patro—Parto—“ Percy’s eyebrows are scrunched up as he tries to pronounce the spell correctly. His older brothers watch him with unveiled fondness and amusement. “Partonus—Pat—Pat… Patro… _Patronus._ ” He grins and he bounces on his seat, hand in the air. “Patronus! Patronus, Daddy! Patronus!”

He giggles as Harry bends down and kisses him noisily on the cheek. “Very good, baby. One day, you’ll learn how to cast a Patronus.” Al and Score are clapping lightly.

“Yay!” Percy glows at his Daddy’s praise. Daddy fondly rumples his hair, which always feels good. Daddy never does that to his other cousins—only on him, Score, Al, Jamie and Teddy. It feels nice to be special.

“Dad! You’re ruining Percy’s hair!” exclaims Al, in mock indignation. “Did you know that he is been up so early today, trying to make it neat _for you?_ ”

Scorpius coughs in a vain attempt to hide his laughter as Percy looks at the two of them indignantly. Harry just leans against the counter and watches, amused at his sons.

“It’s okay if it’s _Daddy_ , Albus Sev’rus,” he huffs, arms crossed and chest puffed out. “Or _Papa_ , because I love them more than anyone else in the world.” He turns to his Daddy and smiles at him adorably.

“Oh?” Al and Score say simultaneously, not noticing that both of them have one of their eyebrows raised.

“Yep. But I love you too, Score and Al. I love Albus Sev’rus and Scorpius Hyp’rion and James Sirius even if they’re meanies sometimes. I love them second to Daddy and Papa, more than anyone else.” He looks up at Harry, who starts summoning metal bowls, whips, and pans from the cabinets. “Daddy? That’s allowed, right?”

Harry stops rummaging from the cabinets for flour to look at his youngest son, whose eyebrows are scrunched up adorably. He tries to ignore the impossibly warm and fond feeling that fills his chest; the expression is an exact replica of Draco’s. “Of course that is allowed, Perce. Family must love each other even if they are meanies.”

Percy smiles contentedly and hums the Little Einsteins song he heard yesterday while watching the telly.

“Dad! You’re raising little Percy into a sappy Hufflepuff,” Score whines, slumping on the table.

Al snorts as he stands up to help his father and gathers bacon and eggs from the fridge. “I have this suspicion that Dad wants his children as his own Hogwarts House collection.”

“And all he needs is a Hufflepuff,” Score agrees, looking at his father mischievously.

“Who needs a Hufflepuff?” Their Papa enters the kitchen, dressed in a crisp, white shirt and trousers. Draco gives each of the twins a kiss at the top of their heads after a duet of “Morning, Papa!” Percy, however, raises his arms, wanting to be lifted. Draco obliges.

“Morning, Papa,” his youngest tells him. He kisses the tip of his father’s nose, which scrunches cutely. He giggles; it’s always fun when Papa does _that_.

“Morning, baby,” he replies. Then, he looks at his twins. “Who needs a Hufflepuff?”

“Daddy,” Score and Al sing the word a little too triumphantly. They will always take advantage of any opportunity to see their Papa go snarky on their Daddy, no matter how much of an act of endearment it was and no matter how sweet and cuddly they become after each time.

“Harry?” Draco frowns at his cooking husband, who is mixing the waffle batter in the pan.

“I don’t need a Hufflepuff,” Harry mumbles, sending glares at his sons as he starts preparing the waffles that Percy wanted. Al has started on frying eggs and bacon. Score is still smirking as he gets four big mugs from one of the cabinets. Harry is always tasked to prepare food every Sunday—for breakfast must be extra special especially if he’s from an overseas mission—but his sons like to help him, anyway.

“Daddy wants me to be a Hufflepuff,” Percy pipes in, holding the sides of his Papa’s head to catch his attention. “Daddy teaches me things that will make me a Hufflepuff.”

The twins snort in laughter and Harry groans. It’s always so amusing how Percy will repeat everything their Fathers have said to him; not that they have not been like that when they have been kids. They still obey and trust in everything that Harry and Draco say to them. It’s just fun to tease Harry and Percy about it from time to time.

 “Hufflepuff?!” Draco repeats, sounding scandalized. He glares at Harry. They’ve been discussing about their sons’ houses in the bedroom before… before _well_. Draco fights a blush and tries to look fierce. “Harry?”

“Dad’s raising Lil to become a sappy Hufflepuff,” whispers Al theatrically, earning him another snort from Score. The latter is beside him in the counter, slicing strawberries and bananas into smaller pieces for Percy. Their little blonde bundle of energy is addicted to having fruits in all his meals.

Draco huffs and takes a chair to sit in, Percy settled and being bounced on his lap. He takes his son’s face in his hands and looks at him seriously. “Now, sweetheart, you are not going to be a Hufflepuff, okay? I can still handle Jamie’s being a know-it-all Ravenclaw or your brother Score being a belligerent and bold Gryffindor—“

“Hey!” Harry and Score protest simultaneously over their tasks, while Al snorts.

Draco ignores them and continues, “—but not an overfriendly, sappy Hufflepuff. You are a Slytherin. A clever and intelligent Slytherin like Albus and Papa. Slytherins are protective of their families and we always succeed. You can be a Gryffindor like Daddy and Score, okay, or Ravenclaw like Jamie, but not a Hufflepuff. Understood?”

Harry, Al and Score set the plates piled with waffles, eggs, and bacon; mugs of hot chocolate; and bowls of strawberries, bananas, blueberries and chocolate sauce on the table; they see Percy nod gravely at his papa’s mini lecture. Draco gives him a satisfied kiss at the forehead. “My good boy,” he says and Percy beams at the compliment. He looks up at his Daddy, hoping for another compliment.

“But we’ll love you whatever house you get sorted into, little buddy,” Harry says, ignoring his twins’ pointed whispers of “ _Hufflepuff.”_ He ruffles the small blonde’s hair, and then glares at Draco. “You’re not playing fair at all, dear.”

“It’s not playing unfairly,” Al quips, unfolding a napkin and arranging it on his lap. He grins at his Daddy. “Papa can say whatever he wants.”

“Slytherins,” Harry and Score mutter under their breaths. At the sight of the _very_ identical looks on the Gryffindors, Al and Draco chuckle fondly. Harry and Score just join in. The former gives his husband a kiss on the cheek and then another one on his youngest son. He’s also honestly taking advantage of the opportunity of smothering his son with kisses and hugs while they are welcome.

“Okay, dig in, my little, adorable and lovely Malfoy-Potters,” he says, ignoring Score’s and Al’s protests, whines, and groans at being called _little_ , _adorable_ , and _lovely_. He meets Draco’s gaze beside him and sees his contentment, love and fondness reflected in those silvery depths he loves. The warmth in his chest never leaves, even when Score and Al start teasing Percy’s excessive love of chocolate sauce on his waffles, fruits, and eggs, and the little one starts chucking chocolate covered banana slices at his two brothers.

Yes, his life is not perfect but he is perfectly happy, he thinks, watching Draco try to pacify their sons and wince when Percy’s chocolate-covered fingers stain his white shirt.

He hides a goofy grin by taking a sip from his steaming mug of hot chocolate.


	2. Stranger Things Will Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for those who commented and read this! I think that I should warn you now that there will be an insane amount of fluff for the first two chapters, since things are just starting to get into motion. I hope you stick with me!
> 
> More warnings for this chapter: Fluff, Excessive use of food-inspired petnames, Love for pizza, and jealous!Ginny

Little Percy knew that his Papa is really sweet and loving when they are at home, but he also thinks it’s cool how papa can scare people whenever they are outside. His posture is perfect, his movements are graceful and flawless, and he arranges the flasks in shelves with careful precision. Maybe that is why mean people seem to not mess up with his Papa’s shop.

“Papa,” he says, tapping on his papa’s thigh to get his attention, “are we buying Al and Score presents because they have high scores, hmm?” He smiles at the memory of his brothers’ glee upon receiving their OWL results. Both of them have received straight Os in all their subjects. Al has even received a strong commendation letter from the test masters for his skill in Potions and Herbology, Score for his aptitude in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration.

Papa and Daddy have promised to treat the family at Barrington Alley to celebrate, along with buying things that they might need for the new term. Al has asked for more advanced potions ingredients set while Score for a wand holster. Percy does not understand why they want those things when, clearly, sweets and life-size bubble-maker set are more exciting.

Draco abandons taking inventory of the potions still available in his shop to look down at his son. “Daddy is with them right now, buying what they need, baby. Did you want to get gifts for your brothers?”

Percy’s eyes widen and shine at Draco’s words. His round cheeks sport a healthy pink flush and starts bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can I, Papa? Can I? Buy presents for Al and Score?” Little fists bunch on the side of his thick dark robes.

“If you want,” Draco chuckles fondly. Percy’s sweetness is incredible, but he really hopes that his youngest son will not become a Hufflepuff. He makes another note on his clipboard about his stock potions, thinking that maybe Albus is ready to start brewing for and help in managing the apothecary.  Merlin knows how proud he has felt when his sons received commendation letters from the Council for OWLs. He has never heard of anyone from Hogwarts being recognized for OWLs, even Hermione Granger.

“Papa! _Papa_ , you’re not listening!” Small hands tug at his dark robes.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he sighs, putting down the clipboard, and lifting his little blonde bundled in red wizard’s robes into his arms. “You have my full attention now, little prince.” He rubs the tips of his nose against Percy’s, who giggles. “What do you have in mind then?”

“We make something special for them, Papa! Please?” Percy says in a rush, placing his hands on his Papa’s cheeks. “Before Daddy, Jamie and them come back?”

“What kind of ‘something special,’ dear?” Draco asks, looking into his little son’s eyes. Unlike the twins, Percy has complete _heterochromia iridum_. One of his eyes is Draco’s molten silver, while the other is Harry’s emerald. He remembers how, when Percy has been born, the healers and Hermione have said that his appearance—a perfect balance of Harry and Draco— is the effect of his and Harry’s _soul bond_. During the times whenever he feels insecure and undeserving of Harry’s love, all he has to do is to look at their sons and remember that if Harry does not love him, Jamie, Al, Score, and Percy will not be here.

Harry loves him and their love has borne fruit to four, bright, beautiful, loving and talented sons. They have a happy family and most people have stopped attacking or taunting him on the streets for the Dark Mark that used to be on his left arm. Draco feels as if his heart is fit to burst.

“Papa?” Small knuckles wipe the tears that have formed at the corners of his eyes. Percy looks at him worriedly. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

Draco chuckles, catches Percy’s two hands and presses them against his lips. “I’m just too happy, Percy. Papa’s become too emotional and soft, don’t you think, baby?” He gives another shaky laugh.

Percy looks at him seriously. “No, Papa. Daddy says it is okay for boys to cry when they’re sad or happy. Daddy says we must not be ‘shamed of our feelings.” He flings his arms around his papa’s neck and mumbles, “I’m happy always, too, Papa, because the un’verse put me in this family.” He looks at Draco’s face again, an adorable frown and pout on his face. “Whenever I imagine that the un’verse made Mark McLaggen a Malfoy-Potter instead of me, and I became a McLaggen I want to cry and be angry.”

Draco gives out something between a laugh and a sob. He feels tears prickling once more at the corners of his eyes, the warmth and love in his chest becoming unbearable. Even with his Mother and Father at the Manor, he has never felt this loved or wanted. He has never thought he’ll be able to want to love and care for other people other than himself, but he does. Only to Harry. Only to their sons.

“Oh, dear Perseus,” he says, brushing his son’s ash blonde hair to the back of his head. “There can only be you for all of us, baby. Don’t forget that.”

After another pat on the cheek, Percy starts babbling about his ideas for a present that his brothers can bring to Hogwarts. (“So that they’ll always think of us or remember us whenever we’re lonely, Papa,” he says.) He tells Draco his ideas and the things he wants to happen and asks Draco if they can be possible. He still does not know much about magic and potions; he’s only started being homeschooled this year, but Jamie has given him books about magic for children like him. He has been reading them, but he knows that it is always better to ask Papa and Daddy. They are more knowledgeable and powerful wizards, after all.

Father and son sit on the couch in the middle of the apothecary, where customers usually wait for their orders. Draco places Percy on his lap and lets his son brainstorm his preferred gift to the twins. He is content in watching the bright, bright life that he and Harry created, only giving occasional comments and suggestions.

They do not notice the figure by the entrance of the apothecary, looking at them with thinly-veiled rage and contempt.

                                                                                                       +                                                                     

“Dad, you’re planning something for Papa, aren’t you?” Score asks his Daddy as they sat on the reading area at Flourish and Blotts, waiting for Al to choose new potions books. His purchase already rests on his lap, a set of books on Magical Defense and Transfiguration theories.

Harry raises an eyebrow at his son, a habit he got from Draco. “What makes you say that?” Years of being an Auror and conducting undercover cases have made Harry more capable of hiding his emotions, but not to his husband. Score, Al, and Jamie are also getting better in reading him.

“Al noticed how you looked at the stuff in the jeweler’s shop while we were waiting for my wand holster,” Score replies, smirking at his Dad. He stretched on the couch. “Don’t worry, Dad, we won’t tell. Just tell us if you need help. You know, this _is_ for Papa, after all. No matter how sappy the two of you are, we really love you.” He smirks at his Dad.

Harry grins; he is perfectly aware, of course, that his sons do not mind his and Draco’s excessive displays of affection to each other. They seem to even like it—secretly, of course—because it keeps the family intact and comfortable. Over the years, the children have seen enough divorces in their social circles to be afraid for their own home. Just last year, Ron and Hermione have divorced.

“Actually, I want to marry your Papa again,” he whispers, looking at Score seriously.

“What?! That’s bloody fantastic!” a gleeful Albus says, walking towards them, carrying two tomes about medieval potions. He sets them on Score’s lap, who grunts, and sits beside their Dad.

Score snorts and says, “And sickeningly sweet.” He is grinning, though.

“Even if this is one of those romantic things Muggle romantics do, Papa will be delighted,” Al says, clasping his Dad’s hand in both of his. “You should propose to him again, Daddy!”

“Papa will faint, maybe. Or he’ll cry—that’s one of the things that will make it worth it, I think,” Score grins.

“There will be no more doubt that no two wizards have loved and valued each other as much as Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy-Potter.”

“Yup, no doubt about it.”

The twins look at each other and grin. Simultaneously, they turn to their father and say, “We’ll help you in everything, Dad. What can we do?”

“Actually, I want to propose again on Valentine’s Day,” Harry admits, feeling really foolish in front of his sons. Luckily, said sons do not comment on his preferred date. Before they can say anything else, a hand clamped on Harry’s shoulders and he is dragged into a fierce hug.

“Harry! It’s good to see you again!”

Harry finds ginger hair buried in his chest. “G-Ginny?!”

Ginny Weasley, his ex-girlfriend, steps back from him and grins shyly. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. I missed you, Harry! It’s been, what, seven years? How are you?”

Harry smiles at her, glad that they can still be friends after her terrible fits of anger first, on their breakup, and then, his marriage with Draco. “I’m doing great, Gin. How about you? How was Egypt?” He motions for her to sit at the couch next to theirs and both of them sit down.

“Egypt is fine. Good thing the Daily Prophet’s still selling, there,” she chuckles, tucking a strand of her long, ginger hair behind her ear. She eyes Harry greedily, not missing how he’s gotten fitter and more handsome at forty-two. His green eyes are brighter than ever and he is sporting a very healthy and attractive tan.

Then she notices the two boys eyeing her warily beside Harry. Her hand flies to her mouth and she gasps, “Oh! Harry, you seem to have done such a good job on your boys.” She leans forward and pats Harry’s knee affectionately. “Albus and Scorpius look so handsome. Hello, boys! You were just so small the last time I’ve seen you.”

Score and Al give her a nod and say, “Hello, Ginny.” They stand up, carrying the books, and address Harry. “We’ll pay for these now, Daddy.”

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but Score cuts him off, “We’ve got your money bag already, Dad.” He brandishes a deep red pouch at Harry, grinning mischievously.

Al says, “Also, we’ve got to hurry; Jamie, Papa and Percy will be waiting at the apothecary.” He nods once more at the woman who still has her hand on his Dad’s knee. “See you around, Ginny.”

Ginny swallows her annoyance at being addressed with just ‘ _Ginny’_ as she watches the two tall boys walk toward the counter. Harry’s sons really are as handsome as her nieces describe them, but she dislikes the fact that one of them is a Slytherin. And it is Albus, the dark-haired, young man, of all four. She tones down the rage she feels at the implication of his final words to her; as if he expects her to be gone after they have paid at the counter.

She clears her throat, and turns back to Harry. “So Harry, how’s married life at forty-two?”

Harry laughs and she ignores the way his eyes seem to glow brighter when he says, “Oh, everything is amazing, Gin. Draco’s perfect and our boys are amazing. I’ve never thought that I can be this happy in a marriage. How about you? Plan on getting married yet? You should.”

Ginny smiles sweetly, ignoring once more how Harry has shifted away so her hand falls from his knee. “Oh, I do intend to get married, Harry, but those plans would have to wait a little more, I’m afraid.”

“Well, whatever your plans are, you know you’ve got my support,” he replies earnestly, before turning around to see if the boys have finished. He stands up and smiles down at Ginny. “I think the boys and I have to go. We have to pick up Draco and Percy at the apothecary.”

Ginny stands up and resists the urge to scowl when Harry steps back to subtly avoid her hug. She smiles at him, setting into memory his face as much as she can. “I’ll see you around, yeah, Harry? Dinner sometime, maybe?”

“Sure, why not?” Harry claps his hand on her shoulder briefly. Emerald eyes briefly meet her deep, brown ones.  “Just say hello to the Weasleys for me, ‘kay? We’ll drop by at Christmas.” With that, he leaves her to approach his sons, who have been waiting for him outside the shop.

Ginny sinks back down at the couch with a huff, her arms crossed over chest. She has not expected that Harry’s had another child with Draco Malfoy and that the Gryffindor is still stupidly happy over the marriage. She swallows the bitterness that seems to choke her down; she’s supposed to be the perfect spouse. She’s supposed to be the one having the _amazing_ kids with Harry.

Tears of resentment, regret, and anger are threatening to spill from her eyes, and she angrily rubs at them. She’s forty-one years old, for Merlin’s sake, and she’s crying over her long-standing, childhood crush.

 _I love Harry_ , she tells herself. She wants him. She remembers the two sixteen-year-old boys a while ago, thinking that they are not even supposed to exist. Harry Potter’s children are supposed to come from _her_.

+

Al looks up from _Much Advanced Potions-Making Theories for the Ambitious Potions Master_ , one of the books they’ve gotten from Flourish and Blots. He looks at his Papa, who has just called his attention.

“Yes, Papa?” he asks, carefully closing the book he’s been reading on his lap, hidden under the table. Of course, this can never have escaped Draco’s notice.

“Albus, I know how excited you are about your new books, but we would all appreciate it if you join the family conversation while waiting for our food, don’t you think, dear?” says Draco, his expression fond and understanding. Al blushes, understanding what his Papa is thinking. Since Jamie has started travelling around Asia for his knowledge management business, they’ve rarely had dinners with their family complete.

“Sorry,” Albus says, feeling suddenly ashamed of himself. He looks at his Papa and Daddy across the table apologetically. They smile back. He feels a light thump on his back from his left and sees Jamie grinning at him.

“So, Albie—“ he starts.

“ _Don’t_ call me _Albie_ , Jamie!” Al complains heatedly, amidst the snickering from Score beside him. At sixteen, he detested his childhood nickname, much less dignified than Score’s _Cori._

Jamie ignores him but the corners of his mouth curl up slightly, “—why don’t you tell me how you’re faring in your Potions research? I’m getting pretty tired of our Gryffindor Quidditch Captain talking about Defense and strategies against _our_ houses.”

“Oy! At least _I_ can play Quidditch rather well, thank you very much,” Score huffs, and Jamie laughs at him. He looks as if he’s about to say more, but Percy pulls on the front of his robes to get his attention. The little blonde has declared that he prefers to eat in his big brother’s lap rather than on the comfortable children’s chair provided by the restaurant.

“Score, tell me more about Quidditch games,” he says to his older brother, though it sounds more like an order. Score sighs and tells his little brother about their last match against Ravenclaw, partly because he feels smug against winning against his older brother’s old house.

Jamie and Al roll their eyes at their smug brother, and the latter starts describing his research on an antidote for Amortentia for his Potions Masters applications. Draco joins his sons’ conversations in Potions while Harry helps Score in explaining Quidditch rules to Percy.

The family is in Maestro Giuseppe’s, a five-star Italian restaurant in Barrington Alley, where Harry and Draco are sure they will not be disturbed by Daily Prophet paparazzi and have their family day ruined. They’ve ordered the house’s special 36-inch pizza for, surprisingly, their boys have become fond of the muggle food.

They are seated in the restaurant’s private dining room; Maestro Giuseppe Bernini, the owner, readily gives this to the Malfoy-Potters, being distinguished patrons of his restaurant. This way, their privacy is assured. The wide room, decorated in browns and whites, with the wide round table and comfortable chintz chairs will keep out any reporter—Animagus or not—and repel any Reconnaissance spells.  Draco and Harry do not want to subject their sons to the jaws and fangs of the press. Harry also secretly favors this restaurant because it’s held no prejudice against Draco’s past during the first time they’ve visited here.

He runs his fingers through Percy’s hair; he has transferred on his lap since he’s begun telling him and Score about his own Quidditch games when he was in Hogwarts. Score, no matter how many times he has heard them already, listens attentively and is able to ask fresh questions to Harry about strategies.

“Daddy, you played against Papa?!” Percy squeals excitedly, scrambling up on the front of Harry’s evergreen robes so he is kneeling in his Daddy’s lap. Draco, Jamie, and Al stop their conversation to look at Percy, staring at Harry with bright, eager eyes. “Papa is a good Quidditch player too, Daddy?”

Harry chuckles and looks at Draco playfully. “Were you a good Quidditch player, Papa?”

Percy turns to Draco with his bright green and silver eyes, fists bunching and creasing the shoulders of Harry’s robes. He can’t believe he did not know this before! His Papa and Daddy, playing against each other! His Papa glares at his Daddy and says, “What do you think, baby?”

Percy climbs to Draco’s lap and smiles widely. “Of course I think you are a good Quidditch player, Papa.” He nods, as if agreeing with himself, earning a few snickers from Al and Score. “Score is a very good Quidditch player because you and Daddy are good Quidditch players, right?”

“Of course,” sniffs Score, looking smug.

Al sticks his tongue out at him, and says, “Arrogant Gryffindor git.”

Jamie laughs, and pinches Percy’s cheek. “You want to be Quidditch player, Lil?” During his time at Hogwarts, he’s also played as Chaser for the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team, giving him more avenues to taunt Scorpius, who’s been the Gryffindor Seeker since his first year, like Harry.

“I dunno,” Percy mumbles. He scrunches his eyebrows again, thinking; he pouts. “Don’t want to be teased by Score or Al or you, though.”

“Look how your excessive teasing has been giving Perseus different kinds of ideas, boys,” Draco chastises. He strokes his youngest son’s hair and says, “No one will be teasing you meanly about anything you choose to do, baby. Papa and Daddy will make sure of that.”

Jamie laughs, and then says. “Oh, but Percy, then you can taunt Daddy and Score about beating Gryffindor once you’re in Hufflepuff.” Score opens his mouth to protest, but his Papa beat him into it.

“Jamie! Don’t go putting ideas in your brother’s mind,” Draco chastises once more, glaring at his oldest son. Jamie looks so much like Harry; he’s inherited the raven-black, messy hair, tall height, and build, except for the need for glasses. His nose and eyes are from Draco. At nineteen, he has been able to make his own name in being a knowledge management specialist in both the wizarding and muggle worlds. Draco only regrets that he has to work from one country to another majority of the year.

Harry chuckles while sipping his tankard of butterbeer (Draco will not let him drink Firewhisky in front of the boys during family dinners). Hogwarts Houses have always been a touchy topic for Draco, and the boys do take advantage of it. He is pleased, though, that House rivalry is merely a source of good-natured teasing and banter whenever they are all together. Jamie’s witty and off-handed comments can rile up his Papa, loosening him up whenever he is too wound up and worried.

Al seems to have forgotten about his book and watches as Jamie tries to convince a pouty Percy into joining the Hogwarts Quidditch team. Score joins in, assuring the baby blonde that Jamie can never tease Percy as long as he is there. Draco just lets his sons joke around, stroking Percy’s small back. As far as he is concerned, though, he does not mind if Percy becomes a Hufflepuff or chooses to be a star Gobstones player, as long as his son is happy; not that he will say that in front of his older sons. They will be teasing Percy more.

Apparently, the family teasing on Harry’s “sappiness” is enough without him being made fun of, in Draco’s opinion. He does know when to put down his foot, but he is satisfied in seeing their boys comfortable and trusting in his and Harry’s presence. Also, Draco’s put enough trust in his and Harry’s way of raising them up to believe that they know their boundaries.

 _“Papa_ ,” a small voice whispers in his ear. Percy has leaned in close to his ear so Jamie or Score will not hear him. They have started their own discussions with Harry about the Puddlemere United’s chances at the World Cup next year, anyway.

“Yes, popcorn?” Draco whispers back, turning his face a little so that his cheeks brush Percy’s. Harry, who sits close to Draco and whose hand is resting on his lower back, hears them anyway. He smirks at the muggle pet names his husband can’t help but call their sons sometimes.

Percy giggles a little at the name his Papa called him, remembering the sweet, warm and buttery snack Daddy has given him in lieu of riding the roller coaster, last year. He has wanted to ride, because Al and the others would, but he was too young, Papa said. Daddy has bought him the popcorn instead, as they waited for Al, Jamie, and Score’s ride to finish.

His small fist flies to his mouth to stifle his giggles. Draco smiles; he is fully aware of how funny Percy finds the weird endearments. “Papa, I want to play Quidditch and be good so I can play with you, Daddy, Jamie, Al and Score,” his little one whispers excitedly. “But don’t tell them that; it’s a surprise, okay?”

“My lips are sealed,” Draco whispers back as Percy leans back so they can stare at one another. He holds up his small pinky and Draco curls his own around it. “Promise.”

Percy smiles sweetly at him, and kisses the tip of his nose. He turns swiftly, however, at the door when it opens. _Probably too hungry now,_ Draco thinks fondly. Pizza has become a family favorite and he would never have thought he’ll like the weird, savory pastry-ish food. It’s been the first muggle food Harry has introduced to him when they have first become friends during Eight Year.

A petite, uniformed girl steps through the door and clears her throat. The family turns to her and she seems frozen a moment that she has the Malfoy-Potters’ attention. She clears her throat again and says, “Mr. Harry Potter and Mr. Draco Malfoy-Potter, sirs, the President of Magic of the United States of America is requesting for a word.”

Vaguely, Draco is reminded of house-elves by the girl’s choice of words, but he promptly ignores it and stares at Harry. He has not met the Magic President of America in his entire life, but Harry has worked on a big case in the far-off country, saving the President in the process. A grand ball has been held in Harry’s honor, but Harry has barely stayed for half an hour then, eager to get back to Draco who was eight and a half months pregnant with Percy.

“Thank you. We’ll receive the President here,” Harry says, with his Head Auror and Chief of the International Task Force Against the Dark Arts tone. Draco thinks that he must probably remind his husband that a leader of a very wealthy country asking for permission to _his_ presence goes against the political norms, and he should be more flustered than the formal and domineering that he is. He does not, though. This is Harry Potter beside him, the Man-Who-Lived-Twice, Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Chosen One, and a President who wants to meet him in a supposed family dinner is the one who should be flustered.

Al, the Slytherin, is also puzzled by this request from the President of Magic of America. Like his Papa, he does not miss the concession of power in the request for his Daddy’s permission before being admitted to his— _their—_ presence. He sits up straightly, ignoring at how his heart starts beating faster in awe of the recognition of his Daddy’s power.

Jamie is unfazed; he has met many powerful people who have treated him with awe once they’ve discovered he is Harry Potter’s oldest son. He is probably expecting the same attitude towards his Daddy from a President. Score, on the other hand, just shrugs and takes a squirming Percy from his Papa and into his lap once more, letting his fathers deal with the situation.

“Score, Score, why is a Persident here?” Percy asks him quietly. His hand is on his older brother’s neck, but he keeps on twisting in Score’s arms, trying to catch a glimpse of the door. His Daddy and Papa have stood up. “And what does he want with Daddy? He’s not… mad, isn’t he?”

The little blonde looks so worried that Score has to rub the back of his shoulders and bounce him on his lap to soothe him. “He’s not mad, Score, and if he is, Daddy and Papa can deal with him. Besides,” he smirks when Percy meets his eyes, “he probably just wants some of our pizza.”

“Pizza,” Percy echoes, giggling uncontrollably. Al and Jamie seem to have heard what he’s said because the former giggles with Percy while the latter chokes on his mug of butterbeer.

“Scorpius, you git,” Jamie grins at him fondly, getting out his wand to dry the front of his white robes.

“Ministers and Persidents eat pizza too,” giggles Percy, who has stuffed his fist into his mouth but can’t stop giggling. “You think Kingsley likes pizza with Ha—Haway—Hawwyan toppings?”

“Boys,” Draco says, not able to ignore the laughter from his sons, imagining Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt putting anchovies and pineapples in his pizza. He knows, though, that Harry can see the fondness and amusement shining in his eyes. They are both standing, waiting for their unexpected ‘guest.’

Jamie clears his throat loudly over the snickers of his younger brothers, and takes another sip from is mug—trying not to laugh with them. He’s missed this, really—the natural fondness, teasing and companionship at home. He’s found that nothing can compare to his fathers’ cooking; chess games with Papa and talking about his travels with his Daddy. He’s missed being made a teddy bear and the receiving end of Percy’s questions and stories; he admits, playing Quidditch or just flying with Albus and Scorpius, too.

Just then, a tall, well-built man dressed in crisp, violet robes entered the private dining room. He is almost as tall as Harry, his brown hair is slicked off his face, and his eyes are a deep chocolate brown. “Head Auror Potter!” he says enthusiastically, taking Harry’s hand and shaking it with both of his. “I heard that you are within the premises and I just could not help but want to meet you and your lovely family.”

His voice is deep and earnest, and his gestures are not without flair and practiced precision. Al thinks that this man has been doing public speaking for all his life. He finds himself amused, however, at how his Daddy only smiles slightly at him.

“President Ashford,” he says. “I must say it is a surprise to see you in Barrington Alley.” He does not ask why the President wants to see him, but lets the question hang in the silence after his reply.

“Call me, Christopher, Head Auror Potter—“

“Harry.”

“Well, Harry, it is, then,” the President smiles earnestly at him then turns to Draco, taking in his pale features. “You’re Draco Malfoy-Potter, I’m sure. I’ve heard so much about the sheer pale beauty of the Malfoys, and I am ashamed to say now that they did not do you justice.” He bows a little.

Al hears Score snort and he swats his twin by the shoulder.

Draco, who is not averse to being called beautiful, smirks, but he draws nearer to Harry when the latter wraps his arm around his waist. “Thank you, President.” He turns to the boys, who have been watching the exchange intently, “Our sons.”

At that, his sons stand up as gracefully and smoothly as they have been taught. Draco thinks he’s never been prouder of them. “Our oldest, James; he is a specialist in organizations and knowledge management—“

James bows lightly and walks towards President Ashford, who seems delighted to be shaking the hand of Harry Potter’s son. “Of course, I’ve heard of your skill and talent in helping companies and businesses flourish in the East, James,” President Ashford says good-naturedly. “I am delighted to meet you, at last.”

“Thank you, President Ashford.” James grins. “It’s delightful to meet the President of Magic of America, too.”

President Ashford laughs again. “Well, I hope that you won’t mind if we ask for your help in our Government in the future?”

James grins more widely. “I’d love to extend the use of my talent to the States, Sir. Just contact Daddy if your owls can’t quite reach me.” Beside the President, his Daddy smiles at him proudly. Harry is torn between rolling his eyes and focusing on his chest swelling with pride for James. Sometimes, he wonders why he is not sorted into Slytherin, what with his ambitious streak; then again, he also wonders why Score is not a Slytherin or Albus is not a Ravenclaw.

President Ashford, eyes bright and excited, turns to Draco. “Your son is talked about by my highest advisers as a potential manager or consultant to the new projects our Ministry will conduct. You must be proud of your oldest sons, Mr. Malfoy-Potter.”

Draco gives him a slight smile, but his sons and husband can see through his mask.  The brightness in his eyes can easily be read (by them, at least) as pride and love. “And my twins, President. They are in their sixth year at Hogwarts. Come introduce yourselves, boys.”

Score and Albus step forward, the former carrying an extra-clingy and suddenly-shy Percy in his arms. Al speaks up first, leaving to Score his and Percy’s introduction (His twin, who sees this, glares at him.) “Good evening, Sir. I’m Albus Severus.” He shakes hands with the President.

“And I’m his twin. My name’s Scorpius,” Score steps in, smiling lightly. He bounces Percy lightly in his arms. “And this is—“

“Perseus Lilo Malfoy-Potter” Percy pipes up, cheeks still red with shyness but he is holding out his little hand to the President. He giggles when President Ashford shakes it with both of his after Score. He turns to Score, eyebrows scrunched. “Score, why didn’t you include Hyperion?” When his brother shrugs, he turns to the President, bright green and silver eyes charming. “His name is Scorpius Hyrpion, Persident.”

Score rolls his eyes, then catches his Papa’s reproachful look at the act. He smiles apologetically and pats Percy’s head. “Okay, okay. He’s right, Mr. President, Sir, but you can call me Scorpius.”

President Ashford assesses all the Malfoy-Potter boys with interest. “I think it is useless to say that you are proud of them, Harry. They are all gorgeous children and obviously talented, I might add,” he says. He looks at Harry, and when he smiles, Draco sees that it is genuine. “I have twins myself; about the same age as yours, I say.” He laughs. “It’s not easy raising them up, and mine is a boy and a girl. I can only imagine what you went through raising all these boys.”

“Are they with you, President?” Draco asks, watching his sons at the corner of his eye go back to their chairs.

“Just my son, actually, because he wants to try the pizza here,” he replies, looking a little embarrassed. He lowers his voice, “And actually, I want to talk to you about something important, Harry. I know that this a family night for you, but this is quite important.”

There is a pause, and he watches Harry and Draco Malfoy look at each other, conversing nonverbally. He is aware of the British wizarding public’s out roar years ago when the Chosen One, the Saviour Harry Potter has declared in the open his relationship with the ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy. Christopher has heard the many rumors about the start of this relationship; the contemplations ranging from strong love potions to bargains with ancient demons for the love of the Saviour.

Now, though, as he observes the couple, he can’t deny the trust and dependence between them. It is evident in how Harry briefly presses his hand in Draco’s lower back and kisses his forehead; Draco hold on briefly to Harry’s bicep before stepping back and approaching his sons, who are keeping a miffed Percy from pouncing on the pizza. It has magically appeared on their table a few minutes ago.

“President, shall we discuss it in another place?” Harry says, going back to formal addresses.

“Yes, of course, Head Auror Potter,” he replies, recognizing that, even for a moment, Harry is the Head Auror Potter once more, the Chief of the International Task Force for wizards. “This will only take a short moment, I promise.”

Al watches from his seat as his Daddy is led out of the room with the President by the maître to another room. He is used to this—all of them are, apparently. Harry is always called at the most random of times about security issues inside and outside Britain. Many people depend on him. He is still grateful, though, that no matter what is demanded from their Daddy, he always gives the most to his sons and husband.

Draco, who is beside him, notices this. “Don’t worry, love. Your father will be back. Your Daddy is stubborn. You know, not even the President-General of the Confederation can keep him away from all of us for tonight,” he says while helping an excited Percy get a slice of pizza on his plate.

Al and Score grin at the confident smirk on their Papa’s face. “Yeah.”

“Eat, you two,” Jamie says, gulping down his butterbeer. “Percy is in his third slice.” He turns to the little blonde on Draco’s lap holding a pizza slice in each of his hands. “ _Liiiiiiil_ , you’re serious on stuffing yourself?”

Percy pouts at him, and says, “I want to be a big boy like you, Al and Score, Jamie! Big!” He gestures wildly with his hands, spattering tomato sauce and bits of meat on his Papa’s robes. He giggles, looking at the stains, then covers his mouth with his hand. “Sorry, Papa.”

“I’m used to it, baby,” Draco sighs, casting a cleaning charm on his baby blue robes with his wand. He conjures a napkin and wipes Percy’s tomato-sauce-smudged face. “Just don’t give yourself a stomachache, okay?” His little blonde nods and resumes to eating enthusiastically. Draco eyes him amusedly; Percy, except for the chubby cheeks, is a lean boy. All the food and sweets that he eats must be compensated by running, flying, and jumping around with his Daddy and brothers.

Score takes another slice from the pizza. No matter how much he loves his little brother, he feels quite grateful that Percy has transferred to his Papa’s lap. He looks at the pizza at the middle of the table. It really is _big_. Three feet of thin and gooey goodness, cut into squares. They’ve always liked this – having pizza over going to fancy restaurants as a way of celebrating since. Score finds that he quite likes how easy the conversations and laughter is between them inside this private room, eating pizza and drinking butterbeer. Also, Percy’s constant complaints that he’s not getting _enough_ of the pizza are kind of cute.

“Don’t worry, baby, we can order some more if you want,” their Daddy says as he reenters the room. Percy looks up, his fist feeding pizza into his mouth. “But we have to finish this big one first.” Harry cringes at how messy his little blonde is; Draco just raises an eyebrow at him, as if to say, _You chose to indulge him this way._

“Dajee, Dajee, shtart—“ Percy starts, however, his Papa cuts him off.

“Popcorn, what did I say about eating with your mouth full?” Papa wipes his mouth again with the napkin. “You’re already four years old, love.”

Percy directs his big, silver and green eyes to his Papa apologetically. He chews with concentration and gulps. “Sorry, Papa. Promise not to do it again.” He wraps his hands around Draco’s neck, staining his robes in the process. Nevertheless, he pats his little blonde at the back.

Harry chuckles at the nickname and his lover’s weakness towards their sons as he takes his seat beside him. He waves his hand to clean his husband’s robes. Al, Score, and Jamie are watching them intently. As usual, they look amused. Draco sees them, too. He huffs.

“Don’t think that you weren’t like Percy too when you were younger, boys,” he says, as Percy straightens in his lap to pick two slices with both of his hands. He hands the other one to Harry. “You made a mess with anything as Percy is doing now.”

“Daddy, Daddy, it’s your favorite! Mushrooms, pineapples, peperoni and lots of parm’san cheese!” he says, looking pleased when Harry takes a bite from his hands and hums. He giggles when a drop of tomato sauce is left on his Daddy’s cheek.

“I don’t think I’m _that_ clingy, though,” James says, torn between wincing and cooing when Percy transfers to their Daddy’s lap with every intention of feeding him the pizza himself.

“Or _that_ messy,” Score mutters, fighting a grin from his face as Percy giggles when Harry nibbles on his fingers.

“Or _that_ addicted to pizza,” Al adds, not looking up from his slice of pizza. Their Papa rolls his eyes at them and bites on a slice of pizza, grateful that Percy have not insisted feeding him like he is doing with Harry.

“Daddy, Daddy, what did the Persident want?” Percy asks, as he reaches to the table for another slice of pizza. He does not think he wants to share the pizza with the odd President, though.

“Just confederation issues, love,” his Daddy says.

“He won’t ask for pizza?”

His Papa, Daddy, and brothers laugh at that. He can feel James reach from the other side of the table to pinch his cheek. Percy pouts. What’s wrong with being concerned about pizza?

“Nope. Your pizza’s safe, baby,” Daddy says, smiling at him amidst the snickering. “But it is something important. Something about Hogwarts, so you see. We had quite the talk.”

Percy just nods, not concerned about what his Papa and the Persident talked about his future school. Papa will tell him about it later when he’ll ask, anyway. For now, he is determined to make his Daddy eat as much pizza as he is willing to give. His brothers, however, perk up at the mention of their school.

“What’s up with Hogwarts, love?” Draco asks, concerned. Leaders of other countries rarely express interest in wizarding boarding schools, and discuss it with the Head Auror. He remembers his third year and fourth years at Hogwarts; the rare times when the Ministry has intervened with the school, something important or dangerous has been up.

Harry seeing his worry, smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry so much, love. Remember that exchange program I’ve been involved in the past few months at the department? President Ashford just wanted to check once more on the security plans.” He reaches out and touches Draco’s cheek, knowing too well what he is remembering. “Nothing too dangerous or anything, I swear.”

Draco gives him a look that says they’ll talk about it further later, and Harry strokes the sensitive skin behind his ear as affirmation. He watches as his husband flushes delicately, hiding it by drinking his butterbeer. His boys do not comment on this exchange, too used to it. They still look excited about something new that is happening at Hogwarts.

“What exchange program are you talking about, Daddy?” Al asks, leaning forward the table eagerly. Score looks excited, too.

“C’mon, Dad. We won’t tell anyone, promise.”

Harry sighs exasperatedly. He trusts his boys too much. He nods, and waves his wand to cast several privacy and muffling spells in their dining room, shifting Percy in his lap into a more comfortable position. The little one has been sucking his fingers, while resting on Harry’s chest. He turns to his sons. “Okay, it’s not exactly top-secret, but it’s not also something you can just tell everyone about, understand?”

They nod eagerly. Jamie smirks at his younger brothers’ expressions. He knows that they have always wanted to experience the adventures and excitement in Hogwarts that their Daddy has gone through, regardless of the danger. The two are probably thinking that what is up at Hogwarts is something to the exact level.

“Well, for the second term, students and some faculty from Salem Academy will be staying at Hogwarts for a cross-cultural immersion, and we at the DMLE have been working to make sure that all of you will be secured and no scheming evil wizards will cause any transnational issues,” Harry says, stroking a drowsy Percy’s back.

“Salem Academy?” Score frowns, remembering it as one of the prestigious schools his team have played inter-school Quidditch against during his second and fifth years. Ever since the war, the wizarding communities have been striving to connect and build ties from around the world. One of the attempts is international, inter-school Quidditch tournaments once every three years. The biggest effort yet is the formation of the Confederation of States of Magic, where his Daddy is one of the leading figures.

“They have a pretty decent Quidditch team,” he adds, recalling how they have competed at the finals and how the Hogwarts Quidditch team has won by ten points when he has caught the snitch. Al rolls his eyes at him, knowing what he is thinking.

“They do,” Harry agrees, grinning. “Anyway, the Confederation wants more Muggle-immersion integration into the curriculums of wizarding schools. Salem Academy has one of the most Muggle-integrated curriculums in the whole world. Students do not only take the usual magic subjects, they also have Muggle electives. While you can take Muggle Studies, they can choose to study more specific subjects that Muggles take at their universities so they can work with Muggles if they want to.”

“Like Journalism, Medicine, Design, Architecture, Computer Studies or Theatre,” says Al, interestedly. He has read about Salem Academy, of course. He is, admittedly, impressed at the curriculum. Wizards and witches at America are encouraged to take Muggle professions, as a way to research on Muggles and ways to innovating the magical communities’ ways of life.

“It’s also part of the reason why they only accept the brightest, most talented, and most powerful young wizards and witches,” Score says thoughtfully. He remembers that the students from the Academy really were arrogant. “Frank told me that they made him take have practical and theoretical entrance tests when he applied.” He grimaces. “Too fussy for my own liking.”

Jamie rolls his eyes at his Gryffindor brother. “Did you know that the Academy has given many letters of invitations for each one of us to Papa and Daddy?”

The twins look surprised. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Harry says, staring playfully at Draco. “But your Papa will hear none of it. Salem is too far from home for his own liking. He did not want to talk about it, despite the fact that _Malfoys always deserve the best._ To be honest, I thought that it was too far, too.”

“It’s tradition, boys. _Tradition_. You should be educated where I and your Daddy have been because you’re both Potters and Malfoys,” Draco says defensively. He is grateful, however, that Harry never mentioned the fits of anxiety he suffered because of dissonance—the panicked fight of the wills to give his children the best and to keep them with him. If Harry has babbled, Draco will banish him to the couch for a month.

“Yes, Papa,” Jamie, Al and Score say; they’re grinning, but they know better than to believe what their Papa has said.

Harry chuckles at them. He wraps his arms around a sleeping Percy; somehow, the little boy has been exhausted the whole day and has slept in one of his favorite places to sleep: his Daddy’s arms. “Anyway, President Ashford’s children are studying at Salem Academy and he’s worried about them.”

“Well, all powerful people have their enemies,” Draco mutters, who have reached to the sleeping blonde on Harry’s lap to stroke his hair. Jamie watches the picture that his parents and youngest brother make fondly.

“He’s like the Muggle president of America,” he says. “Many people will want to get to him through his children.”

“Yes, and well, he is requesting for extra protection and help from you boys, actually,” Harry says, looking at Al and Score. “His son is transferring to Hogwarts.”

“What, we’re supposed to be bodyguards or something?” Al says incredulously. “And why would he transfer to Hogwarts? Isn’t Britain too far?”

“I don’t really think his son needs protection. He just wants to make sure that he has friends at school. So make sure that you do, boys. You just have to find out why he’d transferred once you’ve met him.”

“As long as he’s not an arrogant git, it’ll be fine, I guess,” Score says, trying to remember if any of the players he’s went up against years ago was called Ashford.

The family talks more about Quidditch, Potions and Hogwarts. Jamie tells them about his encounters in the Philippines, India and Malaysia, plus the weird costumes that the more primitive wizards and witches wear in the tropical countries. Score cannot quite imagine how life can be without playing Quidditch; Al, on the other hand, likes how herbs and branches are used for healing without being brewed at all.

Harry and Draco just listen to their three sons, basking in the contentment of having the family content once more. Percy has made Harry his temporary sleeping couch, which is fine for the latter. He knows that other people will say that his six-year-old is spoiled and too pampered; Harry will argue, however, that his little Lil is just being raised with the love and care that he have not grown up with. Besides, this is how Harry and Draco have raised Jamie, Al, and Score, and they’ve turned out into good, talented, responsible, and loving—though teasing—men.

Draco leans towards Harry and whispers in his ear, “What are you thinking, love?”

Harry smiles at him and kisses the top of Draco’s head without disturbing Percy. “I’m just happy, watermelon. Still can’t believe that I have you plus all of this.” He smirks at the use of the food pet name on Draco; sometimes, he can’t help himself—he is so smitten that he just has to call the blonde random pet names. Apart from that, he means and feels every word from his mouth.

“ _Watermelon!?_ ” Score exclaims in a low voice incredulously, attempting to hold back his laughter. He and his brothers have heard the exchange and stopped talking to look at their parents with wide eyes.

“ _Daaaaaaaad,”_ Al whines, not able to believe that his Dad, Head Auror, Vanquisher of the Most Powerful Dark Wizard in History, is as sappy as to call his husband _watermelon,_ a fruit, for Merlin’s sake. A fruit. “ _Really?”_

Jamie has doubled-over in laughter, handsome face alight in mirth. “Oh my god; Daddy’s calling Papa a watermelon. It totally beats honeybee and cupcake for me!”

Their flushing Papa sends each of them a light stinging hex, shutting them up in an instant.

+

Acrux Apollo Ashford sees the Malfoy-Potters, all five of them dressed in handsome wizard’s robes, leave their private dining room. He does not disturb his father, who is agitatedly talking to somebody in the phone. Instead, he observes the family from the corner of his eyes.

Two of the older sons, a tall-dark haired man, and a younger pale blonde, are talking animatedly as they make their way out of the restaurant. Behind them, their parents walk a little bit slower, also conversing. The youngest son is asleep in Harry Potter’s arms.  Last among the group is a dark-haired boy who seems to be the twin of the pale blonde; he is reading a thick, burgundy-colored tome while walking.

 _That must be Albus then_ , Acrux thinks, watching as Albus bumps against a small, ornate table with a large oriental vase near the entrance. He drops his book and stoops down to pick it up, unaware of how the vase wobbles, tipping sideways dangerously—

Acrux whips out his wand and casts a Shield Charm on Albus. A gust of air leaves his wand and—

 _CRASH!_ The tall, oriental vase comes in contact to the floor a couple of feet away from the brunet and breaks into a million pieces. There is a lull of shock as every face turns towards the entrance.

The maître is startled; Albus’ face is white as paper, looking at the shards in front of him. Acrux is frozen on the spot, his heart still trying to break out of his chest.

“Al!”

“Albus!”

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy-Potter are on their son’s side, helping him up. The youngest Malfoy-Potter is crying, and is being soothed by the tall, dark-haired man. His twin, on the other hand, squeezes him on the shoulder, picks up the book and looks around. He catches Acrux’s eyes. Eyebrows rise.

Breathing heavily, Acrux finally realizes that he has stood up and cast all those charms to protect Albus. His head feels faint after the burst of adrenaline. He does not notice his father shake him lightly.

“Crux, are you alright?” his dad asks, worry laced in his voice. Master Giuseppe and other attendants in the restaurants are coming to the Malfoy-Potters’ aid.

“Y-yeah,” he says, shaking his head and rubbing a hand over his face. He still feels on guard. He steps closer to the family and, with another wave of his hand, repairs the vase—good as new. When he sees it’s worked, he gives a silent thanks to those almost-sleepless nights spent helping his sister research and develop the more advanced Repairing Charm.

Startled green-silver eyes frown at him. _What an unusual eye color,_ he thinks, before shaking his head again to clear it. “A-are you alright?” he blurts out. He feels his father come closer and put an arm around his shoulders.

The brunet nods; he seems to still be unable to speak, but his eyes never leave him. Suddenly, a small vial of shimmering, pale blue liquid is being thrust in his face by the pale blonde. _Scorpius Malfoy-Potter,_ he reminds himself half-heartedly.

He frowns at the vial before taking it. The blonde laughs and says, “It’s a Calming Draught. My papa brewed it. Don’t worry.”

Acrux scowls at him, irritated at the energy and confidence radiating from Scorpius Malfoy-Potter. “I know what a Calming Draught looks like.” He opens the vial and downs it. To his surprise, he feels the effects instantaneously. He looks at the empty vial curiously; Calming Draughts are supposed to take effect a few minutes after intake, as far as he knows.

“Our Papa improved on it; it’s nothing weird, swear,” the slightly taller dark-haired guy tells him. He is carrying the sniffling little blonde in his arms, rubbing his back soothingly. He is grinning, though. _James_ _and Perseus Malfoy-Potter,_ Acrux remembers.

“Thanks for doing that for Al,” James says. He touches Perseus’ cheek and tells him, “Thank him too, Lil. He’s the reason that Al is alright.”

The small blonde is still sniffling, but he rubs his eyes with his knuckles and turns them to Acrux, who has calmed down enough to see how cute the child is in his bright red wizard’s robes. He has flushed chubby cheeks and one of his eyes is silver while the other is emerald. “Th-thank you for making Albus Sev’rus safe, S-sir,” he says as firmly as he can, but then, bursts into tears.

“You were really scared by that loud crash, weren’t you, baby?” Draco Malfoy-Potter takes his youngest son from his oldest’s arms and turns to Acrux, who, despite being thoroughly calmed down by the potion, still feels frozen on the floor. “Thank you for doing that to Al, young Mr. Ashford,” he says.

The mention of his family name startles Acrux. He hurriedly bows lightly to the Draco Malfoy-Potter and says, “It- it was nothing, Mr. Malfoy-Potter.” He notices that his father had left his side and is now talking with Harry Potter, whose arm is around his son’s shoulders.

 _Harry Potter._ Acrux gulps, feeling a dizzying hundred more levels of nervous all of a sudden. He’s always admired the dark-haired hero and Seeker since childhood. He’s always considered Harry Potter, aside from his parents and sister of course, as one of the guiding figures of his life.

Said guiding figure is now coming towards him with a smile. Acrux gulps again, flushing and feeling stupid, idiotic, nervous and all kinds of things. He also finds that the green-silver eyes looking at him again with something akin to curiosity does not help at all. His father, he sees at the corner of his eye, is looking at him proudly. He vaguely notices Maestro Giuseppe fussing over the vase behind them, and the attendants assuring the patrons to go back to their own businesses.

“That’s some impressive thinking and wandwork you demonstrated, young man,” Harry Potter says good-naturedly. Acrux looks up at him, flushing and nods. He has lost his words. “Thank you for keeping Al from harm.” He nods at his father. “President Ashford.”

“I’m happy that my son has been of help, Head Auror Potter,” his father says, patting Acrux at the back. He knows about his son’s admiration of the Head Auror and is pleased with the opportunity for Acrux to impress the hero.

“Misters President and Head Auror!” Maestro Giuseppe, a short, stocky man wearing a toque waddles between them, looking harried. “I must know what this young man has used on the vase; it is an antique, magical ornament from China and should not have been repaired by a simple _Reparo_. But it is now good as new!”

With the Malfoy-Potters, the owner of the restaurant, and his father looking at him expectantly, he flushes, unable to find the words once more. _What is wrong with him?!_ Fortunately, his dad is aware of the projects and experiments that he and his sister are getting involved in.

“Is that the modified Repairing Charm that Cal has been developing, Crux?” he asks. When Acrux nods, he turns to the others. “Well, my children have been trying to develop common charms by applying laws of Transfiguration upon them and…”

He continues to explain the little that he knows of his twins’ projects, while Acrux tunes him out. He is frustrated with himself and the way that he has been acting. He is not usually like this; he is not easily flustered, and he does not _stutter_ , for Merlin’s sake. It is his first time to see Harry Potter and his family and he loses his ground all of a sudden.

“Um, thanks.”

He looks up and sees that Albus has left his dad’s side and approached him. He is a couple of inches shorter than he is ( _like Cal,_ he thinks), and is wearing dark green robes. Up close, his messy, raven-black hair is fashionable. _Adorable too,_ a voice in his mind adds unhelpfully. He gulps at the thought. Green-silver eyes, framed with thick, dark and long lashes, are looking at him intently. Their unique color remind him of the supernovas that he saw in Astronomy books; a bright, green star exploding into silver dust— bright, beautiful silver dust. They are smiling and calculating.

Acrux feels his heart thudding quickly in his chest. _What’s this?_ “It’s nothing, really. It’s just lucky that I was looking when it happened, I guess.” He laughs nervously and the boy in front of him smiles at him indulgently. The voice, which annoying sounds like his sister, whispers, _Why were you looking so intently, then?_

He ignores it.

“My name’s Acrux Ashford, by the way. Call me Crux,” he says, surprised by his lack of stutter this time. He sighs in relief, feeling more like himself at last. He holds out his hand, and a softer one with slender fingers grasps and shakes it.

“Albus Malfoy-Potter, and… it’s just Al.”

“Just Al,” he echoes, hating the breathy quality of his voice. Albus seems to not have noticed it as his twin, who is taller than he is, wraps his arms around the brunette’s shoulders and pulls him to his side.

“I’m Score. Scorpius, but don’t call me that. Call me Score,” the blonde says, grinning. “Thanks again for saving Albie’s clumsy skin.” The jest, however, is said with unmistakable affection and fondness.

“ _Scorpius,”_ Al growls at him, pushing his twin away, then turns to Acrux. “See you around, Crux. Thank you again.”

“Yeah, see you.” He can’t help the wide smile spreading on his face.

They turn to leave, following the other members of their family who are waiting outside. Crux watches and listens to the dark-haired boy laugh at something that his twin has said. The sound gives him butterflies in the stomach, which flips when Al turns around to smile at him one last time.

He returns the smile and raises his hand in farewell. _See you at Hogwarts,_ he thinks, _after I figure what this is all about._

“You’re smitten, son,” his father chuckles behind him as he is led back to their table.

Crux is surprised that he does not disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please kudos, bookmark, and comment what you think! Chapter 3 will be put up on Sunday!


	3. Broken Loose on the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 3! It's a few hours late here in my timezone, but I'm hoping that it's still Sunday in yours (?). Yeah? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. The plot is taking shape. :)

Two days before Christmas day find the Malfoy-Potters getting ready for their yearly visit to The Burrow.

“You _are_ sure that visiting this year will be alright, love?” Draco asks Harry as he flattens his palms over the nonexistent creases in his husband’s black coat. He lifts up his eyes to Harry’s—letting his worry and uncertainty show in front of the depths that remind him of dew-bathed grass in the Hogwarts Quidditch field.

Harry holds both of his hands and presses a kiss in each of them. “They’re like my family, love. It hasn’t been an easy year for the Weasleys what with the divorce between Ron and ‘Mione; we should be there for them.” Draco nods uncertainly, and Harry smiles at him. “You worried about Score and Rosie?”

Draco smirks. “I think my sons can handle their bitter ex-girlfriends perfectly, Potter.”

Harry still sees that he’s anxious, though. “Scorpius can handle this. He’s Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw enough to handle this.” He kisses his forehead again.

“You mean he’s Draco Malfoy-Potter and Harry Potter enough?”

Harry snorts. “In a way, that too.”

The door of their room opens and Percy enters, bare-footed and fumbling with a red, blue and green scarf around his neck. He stops when he sees his Papa leaning against his Daddy, a smile blossoming on his pink-tinged cheeks. He will never tire of seeing his Daddy and Papa holding each other.

“Papa, Papa, Papa,” he says. “I need help with my scarf.”

Draco stoops in front of him and fingers the scarf with a frown. “Percy, love, I’ve never seen this scarf before.” He removes the clumsily-wound scarf from his son’s neck and fingers it. “Who gave this to you?”

Percy giggles and rubs the wool against his cheek. “Al wanted me to wear his green Sylth’rin scarf, but Score said no—I should wear Gryffindor. Then, then, then, _Jamie_ said his Ravenclaw is the best.”

“And they resolved this by transfiguring a blue, red, and green scarf for you?” his Daddy asks, stooping beside his Papa. He ruffles Percy’s hair and the latter giggles.

“Yup! Score made it from one of my bed hangings! It’s because they’re white and easier to change color he said.”

“They really are getting good and creative with their magic,” Draco tells Harry smugly. He wounds the scarf snugly around his youngest neck, and fixes his hair with his fingers.

“Papa, do you think I will be good at magic, too?” Wide, bright eyes look at them imploringly. Harry sees the slight worry over his young son’s face. Percy has shown evidences of his magic when he was younger and he’s better in controlling it from randomly bursting now. He can’t help but worry about it sometimes, however.

“Of course you will be, candy cane,” Draco says, hugging him tightly. “You’ll be very, very great at something in the future, but you have to remember now and forever that Daddy and I are proud of you, okay?”

Harry kisses the top of his head. “Yeah, don’t forget that, little Skittles.” He smirks when Percy looks up at him swiftly at the mention of the Muggle sweet. He always gives Percy Muggle sweets whenever he takes him to overseas _not-even-a-bit-dangerous_ missions. The little sweet and sour candies have been a favorite of the little one for this year.

Draco stands up and arranges his gray trench coat in front of their full body mirror while Percy mumbles “Skittles” under his breath gleefully. He hopes that his Daddy will bring more of those Muggle sweets again for him—as his Papa allows it, of course.

Just then, there is running outside his parent’s rooms.

“SCORPIUS HYPERION MALFOY-POTTER! GIVE BACK MY— _Oof!”_ There is a crash outside as somebody seems to have slipped on the floor.

“NO, AL! ONLY IF YOU ADMIT TO HAVING TRANSFIGURED MY—“

“ _I_ DID NOTHING TO YOUR BLOODY—“

There is a pause then, together: “ _JAMIE!_ ”

Harry is slightly laughing as he listens to his sons’ cat-and-mouse chase around the house. Because it’s almost Christmas, he feels particularly lenient about scolding them, now. He catches the eyes of his husband, who is arranging a wide-eyed Percy’s hair in his lap.

He rolls his eyes and says, “Just call them off, please? You do know that my father and all the Malfoys who ever lived are writhing and rolling in their graves with how their heirs turned out, right, love?”

There are more shouting and laughing downstairs, a few bangs and “Ow’s!” and Harry thinks it is quite enough. He stands up and kisses Draco briefly on the mouth.

“Alright, alright, I’ll sort them out. Just come down with Percy when you’re—“

He is cut off, however, by a loud, cold voice.

_“SWEET CIRCE! WHAT AN ABOMINATION! MERLIN AND MORGANA, MALFOYS DO NOT JUMP ON COUCHES TO HEX EACH OTHER. GET DOWN AND HAVE SOME SHAME—“_

“Speak of the devil. Might as well come down and calm him, Harry,” Draco mutters over the angry and indignant shouts downstairs. He kisses Percy’s cheek to steady himself; his sons and husband has always been his anchor whenever he has to face his Father, portrait or not. For a moment, though, he revels on the fact that his sons can make the former Patriarch lose control like that; a feat that Draco never braved to accomplish.

+

“Hello, Father. I see that you’ve broken the boys’ fighting,” Draco says, Percy clutching his leg and Harry behind him. He raises his eyebrow at the sight of his sons sitting on the couches stiffly and uncomfortably. They visibly relax and sigh in relief at the sight of their fathers coming to ‘rescue’ them—not too obvious, though, for the Malfoy Patriarch might notice.

A large portrait of Lucius Malfoy is hung in the Malfoy-Potters’ sitting room. Just like when he was alive, the portrait-Lucius Malfoy looks as cold and aloof as he looks down his son with steely gray eyes. His nose is wrinkled, as if something bad is stuck under it.

“Draco, I caught your sons hexing each other and _jumping on the couches,_ sweet Circe,” he says, as if he has just been describing Al, Score, and Jamie setting the house on fire. “Like monkeys! Really, I would have hoped that you’ll raise your sons to be proper Malfoy, but of course with _Potter’s blood,”_ he spits the name, “in them—“

“Good to see you, too, Lucius,” pipes Harry happily, before his father-in-law says something nasty that his boys do not need to hear. He sits in the couch near the fireplace, directly under the portrait. “How are things going in the Manor?”

He isn’t really curious; just something to divert Lucius’ attention from criticizing his son and grandchildren further. Really, the portrait-Lucius Malfoy is more insufferable than his living counterpart. After the War, Lucius had been cold towards him, especially when he professed his love for Draco. At least, Harry knew that in his own way, Lucius loved Draco. Now, he just tries to keep the portrait’s attention from his family.  He winks at Al and Score who are looking at him apologetically.

“Gathering cobwebs, as you well know—“

“ _Father,_ the Manor is _charmed_ to not get cobwebs.” Draco rolls his eyes as he sits beside Jamie. Percy climbs on Harry’s lap.

“Even so, you should not be raising your heirs there, Draco, not here at some hole of Godric Gryffindor’s—“

“It’s Godric’s Hollow, Father, and Harry, the boys and I are well settled and comfortable here.”

“At the very least, I and the other ancestors can guide you _better_ in your sons’ upbringing.”

Draco sighs. They’ve been through this over and over again. “Father, Harry and I have been raising them just fine. They were just having some normal, somewhat-irritating, but harmless sibling squabble because of a prank.”

“ _What?_ Malfoys can never be so petty as to squabble. They don’t make pranks, also; remember that, all of you.”

“Father, you should know that Albus and Scorpius both have perfect Os in their Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” Draco says, completely disregarding what Lucius has been saying. It is effective though.

The former Malfoy Patriarch suddenly looks smug as he looks at the twins approvingly. “Just like a Malfoy, boys. Bring glory to our family name. Well, I must be visiting Severus at Hogwarts. I’ll see you soon, Draco.” With that, he leaves.

Harry smirks at Draco fondly. “You do know how to deal with your father, though. I’m so impressed.”

Draco sighs. “I can’t stop wishing that his portrait did not turn out so much like his pre-War self.” He looks at the twins. “I thank you for giving me the ammunition for today’s confrontation, boys.”

Al and Score grins at him then their faces fall again. “We’re sorry for causing for such a ruckus,” they say.

“And I’m sorry for making the prank that is cause of the ruckus,” Jamie says.

“Well, you do need a bit of fun sometimes,” Draco says quietly, but everyone in the room hears him anyway. The boys grin at one another.

+

To Harry’s surprise, President Ashford and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the British Minister of Magic since the War, are waiting for him when he and his family arrives at the Burrow. They are occupying the squashy, maroon couches in front of the brick fireplace, with Arthur and Molly Weasley and Andromeda Shacklebolt nee Black. They seem to drop any conversation as Harry steps out of the green flames with Percy in his arms.

“Grandma Dora!” cries Percy enthusiastically, who’s always had the last Black sister wrapped around his little finger ever since Teddy deemed himself too old to be doted on.

“Good to see you, Andy.” Harry allows Percy to move into Andromeda’s arms and gives her a peck on the cheek. Molly has stood up also and gives him a fierce, but brief, hug. Harry is glad to be out of Molly’s arms because a few seconds later, Draco steps out of the Floo and into his arms. Draco has never felt entirely comfortable in the Burrow, and Harry resolves to always be within his reach whenever they are here.

“Aunt,” Draco says, giving Andromeda a peck on the cheek as well. He gives Molly a polite smile and nod, and then turns to Harry, “Al, Score, and Jamie are flying here. I couldn’t say no.”

Andromeda, who has been letting Percy talk her ear off about vampires, Quidditch, and his brothers’ OWLS, looks at Draco fondly and says, “Of course, you can’t say no, dear nephew. Congratulations are in order regarding the twins’ OWLs, I believe.”

Draco blushes but still manages to look dignified. Harry leads him to an unoccupied loveseat and says, “Thanks, Andy.” He pulls Draco beside him, and nods at Arthur, Kingsley, and Christopher, who have stayed silent during the welcomes. “Good to see you again, Arthur, Kingsley, and Christopher.”

Kingsley, who is wearing elegant burgundy robes, raised the glass of eggnog he’s been drinking from. “Happy Yule to you, Harry and Draco.”

“Thanks. To you, too.”

“How are you, Harry my boy?” Arthur asks good-naturedly. The years after the war have been good to him. With a promotion on the Ministry, and all of his children working decent jobs, he’s been able to fund—at last—renovations on the Burrow. The yard has been cleaned, the cottage expanded, and the beams and foundations reinforced. He is also dressed in less shabby robes. Arthur, in Harry’s opinion, looks younger, even. The same goes with the Weasley matriarch.

“We’re doing well, really. How about you?”

“Good, good. So sorry to be interrupting our supposed happy reunion with business, though.” He briefly throws a glance at Christopher Ashford, who has been swirling ice cubes on what seems his glass of scotch. The latter ignores it.

Draco clears his throat, and says, “We’ve figured as much, Arthur.” He looks up when Percy squeals a ‘Thank you!’ at Molly when the latter offers him a plate of cookies and treacle tart. He swallows his annoyance at the thought that the American magic President will go as far as the Burrow to interrupt Harry’s well-deserved holiday. This is still Harry’s decision, not his, so he keeps himself quiet. For now.

Harry squeezes his hand on his lap and addresses Christopher. “What is it, then? Is this about what we’ve discussed two days ago?”

“That exchange program? Isn’t that settled, Harry?” Draco frowns in confusion. Something’s not right; he can feel it. Surely, the immersion is not that big a matter as to require his husband’s constant presence, right?

Harry’s hold on his hand tightens; his lips purse and his head shakes. “No, the other thing you proposed, President. Isn’t that why Kingsley is here, too?”

What other thing? Draco turns on his seat and glares at Harry. He does not like the way Kingsley pinches the bridge of his nose, a rare reaction. He does not like how Arthur Weasley exhales heavily, and says, “So you’ve jumped already into telling Harry, then?” The lines in his face deepen when he frowns, looking suddenly much older.

Draco does not like how Harry is giving him the silent treatment, but just keeps on squeezing his hold in his hand. He and Ashford have been looking at each other for the past minute. The latter does not exhibit the happy demeanor he’s had a few days ago while being introduced to his children. He looks cold, stubborn, and defiant in front of Harry Potter, the Vanquisher of the Dark Lord.

“Harry?” he asks softly, covering the hand squeezing his. It’s starting to hurt, but he does not mind. Not when there are obviously much important things he’ll rather talk with Harry about.

Still, the men— _I’m a man, too, though not involved in politics, damn it,_ Draco thinks—ignores him.

Christopher sighs, as if the burden of the world rests upon his shoulders, and rubs his hand over his face. “Yes, yes, this is about the other thing, Mr. Potter. I find your response dissatisfactory and I’m here to talk to you about it again.”

Draco watches closely as his husband closes his eyes for a moment, as if restraining himself, then turns intense, blazing green eyes on the President of one of the largest wizarding communities in the world. He grits out, “I thought I’ve made myself clear. I thought that we’ve settled this issue quite amicably, President Ashford?”

“Clearly, the impression was not mutual, Harry,” the president replies. He downs his scotch in one swig, and cocks his head towards Draco. “Your husband did not find it appropriate to inform you, didn’t he, Mr. Malfoy-Potter?”

Draco, suddenly feeling nervous and so left out, frowns at Ashford. “I’m confused, honestly. I’m sure that if it’s something important, Harry would have—“

“Leave Draco and my family out of this, President Ashford,” whispers Harry fiercely. Draco only barely managed to contain his flinch. Harry rarely shows how pissed off he is. What are they talking about?

“I can’t really do that, now, can I?” Ashford laughs hollowly. He looks genuinely tired, now, but Draco cannot find in himself to feel sorry for the man, who’s been taunting Harry. “They’re after him and your sons, Harry. Surely, you are more invested in this matter than the rest of us.”

“Harry, who’s after us?” Draco asks softly, hating how vulnerable he sounds after finding out that there is a threat to his sons. After painfully realizing that, for some unknown reason, Harry has not thought it important enough to tell him about it.

Harry is slightly trembling with rage, but only Draco can notice. He does not answer him, but addresses the rest of the room. “And all of you are here to insist on me getting directly involved in this?”

“Harry, I’ve been telling them that going to you this way is the last thing they’d want to do to convince you if they’d known what you went through—“ Arthur starts, but Kingsley cuts him off.

“You’re the Chief of the International Task Force for the Confederation, Harry. You’ll have to deal with this soon, if not later.”

Harry laughs humorlessly, “Kingsley, this has nothing to do with the Confederation, and you know it. If it was, there will be no need to be secretive. We’ll be discussing at the Headquarters, not here at the Burrow, the last place where we can be discussing international matters.” He glares at each one of them. “You just want to use me. Again. At the expense of my family.”

Ashford raises his hands defensively at the fierce stare. “Doesn’t change that you’re the Chief, Mr. Potter. You swore an oath—“

“—to serve the magical communities with the best of my abilities by leading their forces in maintaining peace and security, and standing up _with them_ against any international threat. _Not_ being your pocket-hero and instant-one-man sacrifice,” Harry hisses.

Draco looks at him and then at the men in front of them repeatedly. Heart beating fast, eyes widening, he thinks he knows vaguely what they’re asking of Harry. A very dangerous mission? Making him a marked man once more? Letting him fight by himself once more? Is that it?

Despite feeling weak, sick, and clueless, he steels himself to hide it all and asks, “Harry, what’s happening? Answer me, please.”

Harry looked at him for a minute, eyes full of emotion—as if… as if just looking at him makes him _hurt._ “It’s nothing, Draco. I will not be participating—“

“Harry,” Andromeda cuts him off sharply. They both look at her, standing behind Kingsley’s seat, her pale hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I think it’s best if you tell Draco about this. He’s your partner, and he’ll help you.” Draco notices that Percy and Molly have left the room.

He runs his other hand on Harry’s strong forearm and whispers, “Harry, please, I’m confused.”

“I can’t do this,” he mutters so lowly that Draco thinks he never intended to make that heard at all. He turns to Draco then, in front of everyone, crashes his lips against his briefly. Draco inhales sharply, surprised and overwhelmed at Harry’s strong display of emotion.

They break away, Draco breathing heavily. “Harry, love—“

“Tell Draco everything, Kingsley, Ashford,” Harry says icily. He wraps his arm around Draco and pulls him impossibly closer against his side. “Explain what’s happening to him, then.”

“The quick way?” Kingsley asks weakly. He, honestly, is also surprised to see Harry’s sudden and fierce kiss on his husband.

Ashford mutters, “Do it the quick way, then. Makes the shock more intense but quicker to fade.”

Kingsley sighs, and Draco feels Harry’s grip on his waist tighten. “Draco… almost eight years ago, an underground organization of Muggles found out that wizards and witches exist. We still do not know how that was possible—who broke the Statute of Secrecy, and what lies have been told to convince these Muggles that we are here to take advantage of them.

“I know that they sound harmless—they are just Muggles, after all. We thought so, too. Compared to them, the different hitwizards and Obliviators from different countries we sent after them seem to be enough. What we did not foresee, that they _did_ outnumber us. Muggle organizations, as it turns out, are transnational. They have connections, chapters, divisions, and different leaders all around the world. Their networks make them strong. Their technologies, too—their knowledge of us seem to have been enough to allow them to develop clothing that deflects our spells, and to detect magic in people.”

Ashford says, “You must think it pathetic—the wizarding communities being threatened by these Muggles. We’re ashamed to admit it, really, we are. That’s why only chosen people know about this. No need for the citizens’ confidence to waver in us. Our first move was to build up the Confederation—to establish linkages between communities around the globe. Then, we spent spies to the Muggle world so we can monitor the actions of this organization.

“What our spies found out were disconcerting. It turns out that what we’re dealing with was an organization of organizations. They deal with drugs, arms, and human trafficking. They are subtle; they work underground, and have holds on different Muggle governments. One of the findings was a research facility for developing defenses against our spells, and experiments for extracting magical cores of persons. We don’t know yet for what, but they’d been kidnapping Squibs and parents of muggleborns in Asia and Latin America.”

Draco feels sick; he hasn’t noticed himself holding on to Harry. How can such Muggles hold so much power? “What does this have to do with our family?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and looks apologetic at Draco. “Well, I know that you still remember when your twins were kidnapped seven years ago.”

Cold runs down his spine. How can he forget? How dare Arthur Weasley even remind them of that? Draco closes his eyes, trying to contain his emotions by counting slowly. Albus and Scorpius have been abducted by rogue Death Eaters when they were nine years old. For ninety-seven days— really, how can he forget how much he counted the days?— his sons were held hostage until the British Ministry of Magic offers them Harry Potter’s magical core.

Draco knows that Harry would have given them his magical core to save their sons, but he also had to think about what those bastards would have done with his magic. What resulted was a worldwide manhunt led by Harry Potter, while Draco waited in their home in Godric’s Hollow, trying to deal with his nerves. He had to let Jamie stay with Andromeda, for he could not take care of himself, much less Jamie, while his husband and his sons could die any day.

Foolhardy, stubborn, and the Gryffindor as always, Harry almost lost his life in a battle against wand- and gun-yielding wizards, trying to save his sons.

Draco suffered post-traumatic stress disorder for five months following the event. Harry was in coma for two months, his sons’ magic receded because of fear, and Jamie withdrew from him. He knew that if it weren’t for Harry waking up and helping him through PTSD, he would have killed himself. Harry made him realize that it wasn’t his fault—it wasn’t the karma for his mistakes during his childhood—that caused all of it.

“Draco, love.” It is only when Harry fully wrapped his arms around him that Draco realized he is trembling. Draco gratefully buried his face in Harry’s chest.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to listen more. I knew it would be too much.” His hands are rubbing soothing circles along his back.

“No. I want to know, Harry.” He straightens up, despite Harry’s exasperated sighs. He’s grateful, though, that he have not removed his arms from around him. “What about—“ He clears his throat then continues, “what about what happened seven years ago?”

“The Muggle organization—they’re called The Underground, our spies think— knew about the hostage-taking, since Harry’s find had been widely publicized. We think it’s due to it that they’ve been interested in magical cores in the first place.” Arthur takes a deep breath and looks at Draco evenly. “They are on a vendetta against Harry, and we think—we’re not yet sure—they will try to break into our world to provoke him or something.”

“You see, this is all about your husband,” Ashford says, ignoring the glare that Arthur throws at him. “And your sons. Their magic is so strong that The Underground will want to covet it. This is also cemented by the fact that Mr. Potter managed to sire heirs of that power with another man. They want our world, of course, but they know that with Harry in the picture, it will not be possible.

“Our request, Mr. Malfoy-Potter, is for your husband to be the central power—or weapon, if you want me to be frank—in our movement to eliminate these Muggles and their resources. For the future of the wizarding world.”

+

Crux cannot have felt more grateful when his cellular phone starts ringing. It is the excuse he needs to get away from Rose Weasley, the redhead with curly hair and baby blue eyes, who have been trying to flirt with him since his father left him to wait for Mr. Potter in the Burrow’s drawing room. He has been sitting on one of the benches in the kitchen, hoping that everything is going well upstairs, when she joins him, introduces herself, and starts getting all touchy at him.

“Wow, you have a cellphone that works _here?_ ” Rose asks excitedly, reaching out a hand to hold the arm that holds his phone. “Can you show me how it works?” She smiles sweetly at him.

“Well, I don’t know,” Crux answers uncomfortably. “But I really have to answer this. Uh, excuse me.”

He stands up without further ado and runs out of the house to have better reception. There are chickens strutting around the yard, but at least the grass is mowed and not too unattractive, he thinks. He looks at the screen to see his sister’s contact ID being flashed. He swipes at the green button and places the phone near his ear. “Cal.”

“Wow. I didn’t expect to hear you so relieved and happy that I called, though.” There’s a pause, then she continues, “Anyway, how are things?”

“I dunno still, really. They’re taking so long at the drawing room—“

“What, you were sent away?”

“Of course, I was. Dad thought it was for the best. Anyway, I know that the Malfoy-Potters are here since the youngest one, Percy, is here.”

“So he was sent away, too.”

Crux rolls his eyes. “He’s just _four_ , Cal. And I don’t think he was sent away. I think Molly Weasley took him out when the conversation’s getting intense.”

His sister hums in response. There are sounds of papers and shuffling from her end and Crux just knows that she’s working on her projects again. Not that he blames her. “Anyway, I called to tell you that we’ve hit progress with the Reinforcement Spell. We tried your idea of letting the magic seep into the fabric and Hunter did the Absorption Spell. Still have to test it, though. At least it did not crumble this time.”

“That’s… great.” Crux’s voice falters when he sees three persons landing on the lawn in brooms. Raven hair windswept, pink tinting pale cheeks slightly, and eyes bright with energy, Albus dismounts his broom and shrinks it. Crux watches as he consciously tries to rearrange his black locks.

“You don’t sound so happy, Crux,” Cal tells him grumpily.

Crux shakes himself from his stupor and _tries_ to focus on his phone conversation. “Of course, I’m _ecstatic_. We’ve been researching about this for weeks.”

“How’s Albus?” There’s no mistaking about the mischief in her voice.

He splutters, his eyes travelling towards the brunette a few yards away from him. Scorpius and Albus have noticed him and are making their way towards him. James leaves them and walks towards the door. “Wha—“

Cal _tsks._ “Talk to him, yeah?”

“Cal, what happened two days ago was nothing, alright? I’m over it.” He’s panicking. He thinks that they can hear Cal teasing him.

“I’m not convinced. Just talk to him. You like him, Crux.”

“ _Calliope,_ STOP—“

“Don’t be too cowardly to talk to Harry Potter’s son. I’m expecting to hear about your progress once you come back here.”

“Cal, listen—“

“And I hear that he really, really likes Potions and reading—maybe you can make him teach you? It’ll be hitting two birds in one stone.”

“Hey! Stop it—“

“Oh, would you look at that! It’s time for my internship. Have to go. Bye, Crux! Send my love to, Dad!”

“Calliope Athena—!” The line is cut off. Heart beating fast, Crux runs his hand through his russet-colored hair, making it stick at odd angles above his head. He takes his time to swipe randomly on the screen of his phone, trying to delay the unavoidable.

“Hi, what are you doing here?”

He finally looks up and is arrested by green-silver eyes. Albus is looking at him quizzically, but is, thankfully, smiling. He curiously eyes the sleek, white gadget in his hands, but Scorpius, who is beside him, is the one who says something about it.

“I’ve heard of magic-modified phones before, but never seen one,” he says, grinning at him. “That your girlfriend, mate?”

“Scorpius,” chides Albus, elbowing his twin’s side. He looks at Crux apologetically at his twin’s nosing. Crux gulps.

He forces himself to say something. “I don’t have a girlfriend anymore. That was Cal, my sister.” He shrugs then turns to Al, “I’m here because, incidentally, my father has to be here, too.”

“I see,” Albus says, then starts walking towards the front door. “Well, we don’t want to delay our hellos further, Score,” he calls onto them. “I’m hungry, too.”

Crux can’t force himself to look away from Albus’ back as he falls in step with Scorpius. He shoves down the thought that he just might be acting rude by letting a little admiration color his appreciation. He thinks he can hear Cal snickering at the back of his mind.

“You’re going to Hogwarts, aren’t you?” Scorpius asks him. The blonde is an inch taller, Crux notices, and he tries not to feel resentful about that. He’s spent an entire summer after the Inter-School Quidditch Internationals last year trying to live with the fact that Scorpius Malfoy-Potter might just be _a lot_ better than him in Quidditch.

Crux hums in agreement, eyes still on Albus, who is pushing the door open and is waiting for them. There is a flicker of impatience in his eyes at their slow advance.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?” he frowns at the blonde and stops, hair flying in the afternoon wind.

“I’m curious why you’re transferring to Hogwarts. And during second term of sixth year, too. I’d say you’d also think that as a little curious,” Scorpius replies, stopping too. “Since you’ll be in the same year as Al and I, we’d like to know what made you move out of Salem.”

Crux knows, of course, that he cannot possibly tell him and Albus—oh God, _Albus_ —why he has to leave Salem Academy. Calliope and Hunter will kill him before he can even say “Hogwarts.” Still, he has to say something for he can’t get the Quidditch captain suspicious. His research told him that the second eldest Malfoy-Potter child is not just made up of good looks and Quidditch talent.

“Calliope—that’s my sister—and her friend, Hunter, thought that if I enroll in Hogwarts and have Hogwarts students warm up to me, it will make the immersion much easier for them in February,” he replies. There, he thinks. It is somewhat true, after all. At the corner of his eye, he realizes that Albus has gone first but left the door open for them.

Scorpius raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s lot of sacrifice just to make sure that the exchange program goes smoothly,” he says. He shrugs, “Anyway, whatever the reason, I hope you get sorted into Gryffindor.” He grins, nudges Crux with his shoulder, and starts walking once more.

“I hope so, too,” he replies, falling into step once more with Scorpius. _I don’t think I’ll be able to focus if I get sorted into Slytherin and has to room with Albus_ , he thinks a little uncomfortably.

“Yeah. I’ll be able to help you with a lot of things, I believe,” Score chuckles as he pushes open the door further. Smells of pie and fruitcake reach their noses. “Like telling you the fact that unless you learn to be subtler, Albus will notice you’re mooning at him and probably hex you.”

Crux feels floored. Despite the blush spreading on his cheeks, he glares at Scorpius. Just for the effect, he grabs his collar and pushes him against the closed door. He growls, “Not a word, Malfoy-Potter.”

Scorpius—the _jerk_ —just laughs at him and sidesteps out of his grip. “Of course not, Romeo.” His eyes, which were so much like Albus’, flashes dangerously. “Just remember that if you mess Al up, you’ll be answering to _me_ , mates or not.”

He leaves for the kitchen, calling out for the youngest Malfoy-Potter’s name. Crux recovers from the shock of being found out and resolves to just admire Albus Severus Malfoy-Potter more subtly.

+

The only sounds that can be heard in the drawing room are the crackling of the fire and the occasional swish of Draco’s robes as he shifted in Harry’s lap. They are alone now, being left by Andromeda, Kingsley, Arthur, and Ashford a while ago to let the information sink into Draco. Draco, who hasn’t said anything after trying to defend his husband, buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck and lets him run his fingers through his hair.

_“Our request, Mr. Malfoy-Potter, is for your husband to be the central power—or weapon, if you want me to be frank—in our movement to eliminate these Muggles and their resources. For the future of the wizarding world.”_

_There is silence—all of them has heard this, but Draco sits up straighter, his eyes wide. “What?”_

_Ashford briefly rubs his fingers between his eyebrows, as if he’s suffering from a severe headache. He sighs and looks squarely at Draco’s eyes. Calmly, he reiterates, “Mr. Malfoy-Potter, we are inviting—no,_ imploring _your husband to fight and work for us. The Underground targets him, and it only makes sense that he fight for us.”_

 _“That’s not it, at all, isn’t it, Ashford?” sneers Arthur Weasley. “Tell him—tell Draco, how you intend to send Harry into different missions that will draw the Muggles’ attention to him. Tell him how you intend to manipulate them into_ really _considering Harry as their number one threat—“_

 _“A bait?” Draco’s voice is rising. He tries to stands up, but strong arms go around his waist and pull him down against a strong chest. He struggles. “You want to use my husband as your bloody_ pawn?! _” He looks at Kingsley and Andromeda, who has served as his and Harry’s parents years after Narcissa and Lucius passed away. “And you’re in on this?”_

_Ashford ignores his reactions and says, “Yes, a bait. A sacrifice, if you will. Do you want me to give you another term for what we need the Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, for? Alright—we want him to be a symbol of the Confederation. A symbol of strength and courage. The Muggles—we don’t know their power—will be coming soon, Mr. Malfoy-Potter. Whether you like it or not, your family is a target. What you can do is to convince your husband to fight for you and your sons. You’ll be roped into this eventually, no matter how much you whine—“_

_“Shut up,” Harry fiercely cuts him off. His voice was so sharp with emotions that Draco thinks it cuts through any sound in the word. Ashford tenses, then glares. Draco can imagine the light from the fire making the green of Harry’s eyes dance and flash dangerously. “Shut up. I don’t care who you are, but the next time you talk to my husband like that, I_ won’t _be sitting still, Ashford.”_

 _“You have to say yes, Harry,” he replies fiercely. “Your children will be kidnapped; your husband will be threatened; you’re involved in this as much as we all are. You have enough power to protect the wizarding world again. You’re the hero. There’s no other way._ Why _can’t you just say_ yes _?” His last words are a hiss, and he runs his fingers through his slicked brown hair frustratingly._

_“I won’t be anyone’s pawn anymore, Ashford,” Harry says, his hold in Draco’s waist tightening. “I have my own family to think about now. I don’t want to let anyone dictate how I live my life.”_

_Draco holds the arms encircling his waist and firmly squeezes. He knows what Harry is feeling; he is the husband and lover, after all. He glares at Ashford. “Harry and I can protect our sons, if needs must.”_

_Andromeda leaves her post behind her husband and approaches her nephew, hand outstretched to touch. “Draco…”_

_He shakes his head, but holds her hand. “Because I’m his partner, I’ll respect and support Harry’s decision, Aunt. No matter what it is.” He gives the occupants in the room a resolute stare. “I think you should leave us for now and let us talk. You have disrupted our plans enough.”_

Nothing has been said between the couple after the other occupants left. Draco knows that Harry is giving him time to digest everything that has happened, and he is grateful. Harry has always been able to read him, the more time he spent trying to befriend him during their Eight Year. Draco has been difficult—when is he not?—but he is grateful that the war taught Harry patience and giving other people second chances.

He does not know what can have happened otherwise.

“Harry?” he says softly, still nuzzling the side of his husband’s neck. Harry is playing with his hair. The situation is so normal to Draco, they could have been in their room at Godric’s Hollow. They’re not, though, and they need to talk.

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about what Ashford told you right away?” _Don’t you trust me?_ Draco’s insecurities supplies in his mind. He fights them, though.

Fingers do not stop running through his hair. “I didn’t tell you because it was a done deal. My decision was made, love. I don’t want to be anyone’s pawn anymore – I don’t want you and our sons getting roped into this and getting worried.”

Draco straightens up to glare at his husband. “Potter, I hardly think that a Muggle criminal organization after your magical core is nothing to worry about.” He sighs and shakes his head. “You do realize that there is a great chance that we’ll have to fight, right? And you’re still Chief of International Task Force. They’ll try and get you whatever way they can.”

Harry cups the side of Draco’s face with his palm and Draco leans into it. He smiles. “I’ll be careful. You should, too. Love, after almost dying seven years ago, I realized that I don’t want to go sacrificing my life for every cause that jumps my way. I still want to live long with you, to see James, Al, and Score be successful in their careers, to see Percy grow up, to make love to you every night, and do many more things with all of you.”

Draco, cupping his palms around Harry’s neck, smirks. “Nothing is more important.”

“Yes, nothing is more important. You and the children always come first. Maybe things will grow into another war and we would have to fight, but everything that I will do, I want to do for our family. Being the weapon and poster boy of other people’s plans will not help you one bit. I’m being less reckless about this, you know?”

Draco runs his thumb over his husband’s bottom lip. “Really?”

“Really, really.” He nips at the pale, soft thumb playfully.

Draco shakes his head at him and drawls, “Potter, your children are right. You’re a very sappy man.” He kisses him on the cheek, rests his head under his chin, and hums contentedly.

“Yours, though,” Harry replies; he buries his face on platinum blonde hair and draws the body on his lap ever closer to himself. They’ll deal with things as they come, but they’ll be prepared. Later, they’ll both have to go down for lunch with the Weasleys, and talk about Quidditch, work, and children. He’ll have to face Ashford and Kingsley once more and proved to them that his decision is made. Then, tonight, he’ll cook dinner with the boys, while Draco and Percy reads a book to them.

But those are all for later. Right now, though, they have this moment. Harry will enjoy it.

+

Arthur leads them to a smaller sitting room in the Burrow after leaving the Malfoy-Potters. Christopher feels like his migraine is attacking once more, and is grateful when Andromeda offers him a cup of tea and the platter of biscuits. He refuses the biscuits, but eagerly inhales the calming scent of chamomile. He ignores the look of slight disapproval in her warm, whiskey-colored eyes.

Harry Potter is stubborn, he’ll give him that. The man will not bend to their will any time in the future, and it’s grating on Christopher’s nerves. Most of his allies are ready to proceed to the next steps of the plan—except Potter. He’s tried the gentle, non-coercive coaxing at the pizzeria two days ago; he’s expected that Harry would change his mind and contact him soon. The disappointment and irritation is indescribable when the no message from the Head Auror has arrived.

“Harry will never concede to most of your plans, Ashford. He’ll bow to nobody.”

He looks up and meets Arthur Weasley’s steady gaze. Despite assuring them of his cooperation in parts of the plan when he sees it fit, the man loyally stands by Harry Potter like a father. “Even if it’s the only way he can save his family? Even what we offer is what we’ll help them the best?” he drawls, feeling infinitesimally better after a sip from his teacup.

Andromeda shakes her head as she returns to a seat beside her husband. “You can’t be so bold as to say what you offer them is the best. Harry and Draco have their own means to protect their family. Arthur is right. Harry will not be a pawn.” She lays a hand on Kingsley’s knee and looks daintily sips her tea. “Even I, who knows that Harry is crucial in this ordeal, never want Harry to be treated as a mere tool again.”

Christopher smirks at Lady Shacklebolt, always the epitome of grace. “Aren’t we all tools in the bigger scheme of things, though? Don’t we all have purposes to serve?”

“But to reduce the man into a mere symbol— a poster boy under the whims of those around him—“

“Andy, we’ve been through this—“ Kingsley says, but she turns towards him with a glare.

“Do _not_ interrupt me, dear husband. Christopher, if you cannot convince your _partners_ regarding Harry’s contributions in these efforts, you might as well form contingency plans that discount Harry. Coercion and manipulation can only go so far—not just on Harry, but other people as well. Mr. Potter, more than anyone else, knows the costs of reducing people as personal chess pieces.”

The gears in Christopher’s head are turning. So many people to talk to. He internally groans at the major adjustments he will have to explain to his daughter. He can, however, visualize her smirk and “I told you so.” Still, he thinks that no one should blame him if he still cannot be rid of looking at situations like a chess game.

His migraine kicks up again, but he does not stand up. Instead, he tries to enjoy his tea, thinking about how he would have gone over his plans if his wife is still alive.

“…I’ll help you with your negotiations with the Confederation, President Ashford,” Kingsley is saying. The Magical President of America looks up. “Let’s just leave Head Auror Potter alone.”

“For now,” Christopher replies. Harry Potter _must_ be in on this. The whole world needs it. He does not know if he can give up some power for the strong-willed, dark-haired man, but he’ll see his choices. He’s not giving up anytime soon.

Downstairs, he knows that his son is making acquaintances with the Malfoy-Potter boys. He tunes out the conversations around him. He decides to stay in the Burrow longer and lets Crux have his fun. Goodness knows that his children need to be teenagers sometimes.

+

An hour later, the door of the drawing room opens and little Percy pads his little feet on the carpet to check on his Daddy and Papa. He holds a plate of treacle tart and a slice of raspberry pie to share to them. Molly has sent him upstairs after having nothing to do downstairs but sit on the bench and ask questions about chickens while she cooks. He might as well go to his fathers. However, when he checks on them on the sofa, he finds Papa lying across Daddy, their arms around each other. Both are asleep.

Percy stuffs his fist in his mouth, trying to stifle his giggles. Unfortunately, because his little body is trembling, the fork clinks against the plate and Daddy opens his eyes.

“ _Daddy_ ,” Percy whispers, places the plate on the table in front of the sofa them and climbs on it. Carefully, so as not to jostle and wake Papa. “ _Daddy, I brought you pie.”_

Daddy grins at him and winks. He mouths _‘Thank you, later’_ and points at his sleeping Papa. Percy nods and tries to get comfortable on his seat. No one from the Weasley kids will play with him, Score seems to be playing chase or hide and seek with Rose, and Al’s attention is being stolen by the boy from the pizza house. He might as well join his Daddy in looking after his Papa.

“Daddy,” he whispers again, and his Daddy smiles to show that he’s paying attention. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Can I sleep like Papa, too?”

Daddy beams at him and levitates the plate between them to a nearby table with a wave of his hand. Then, he stretches one arm to invite Percy into his embrace. The little blonde— _carefully_ —attaches himself to his Daddy’s side and wraps his arms around his Papa’s.

He likes this, he thinks. It does not matter if the Weasley kids do not like him, or the niceness of the new Aunt— _Aunt Ginny_ — feels forced. As long as he’s with his parents, he cannot be upset forever.

Nope.

Percy’s happy.


	4. Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the chapter for Christmas. It's relatively short, and there are a lot of obscure stuff, since I'm introducing here another secret organization that wants Harry. This starts with a lots of fluff about Draco and Harry's Christmas morning; you've been warned.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Fluff, Lots of Original Characters
> 
> Head's up though: I'll be changing the title from _Fanning the Flames_ to **Nowhere is Safe** because it fits what this is about better.

In the morning of Christmas, Harry and Draco wake up to the sounds of _(hushed)_ shouting, clanging, and boxes crashing to the floor. It goes on for a minute and Harry, not able to make sense of the arguments going on between his sons, waits for it to abate. After a lot of angry _shhhhs!_ , there is silence.

Draco, who is spooned comfortably by Harry, grips the arm around his waist and groans. “Tell me how on earth I was able to produce such uncouth and rambunctious sons? Potter, it is your entire fault.”

Harry chuckles and nuzzles into platinum blonde hair. “Don’t deny how much you like it, my dear love. Happy Christmas.”

Draco turns around in his arms to press his face against his bare chest and hums contentedly. “What time’s it?”

Harry presses his lips against his forehead and casts a Tempus Charm. “It’s half-past five, love.”

Suddenly, his husband squirms out of his arms and sits up, glaring at the window. The sun is not even up yet. “Harry, what, in the sweet name of Circe, do you think the boys are up to in this _unholy_ hour?”

He moves to get out of the bed when the banging and arguments start again, but Harry catches him around the waist and pulls him between his legs. He rests his chin on Draco’s shoulder, chuckling. “Calm down, Dray. The worst they can do is wake up Dobby, Winky, and Kreacher. It’s an early Christmas and you haven’t indulged me yet.” He presses small kisses and kittenish licks along the column of his blonde’s throat.

“Do save your seduction for later, love,” Draco replies in a strained whisper. “We have to check on the boys.”

Harry, however, cannot stop himself from tasting his husband soft, pale skin. Instead of letting go, he pulls Draco much closer against his chest and rains loud kisses on the exposed shoulder. He chuckles when the blonde he’s trapped in his arms squirms, reminiscent of their youngest son when asking to be put down.

“Potter, unhand me right now,” Draco whines, a sound that he will heavily deny when Harry teases him about it later. Harry tightens his arms around waist and breathes his scent in.

“Mmm. I love you,” he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss on a pale cheek and letting him go.

Draco turns around so he is kneeling between Harry’s legs and he’s holding on his strong shoulders. Harry looks up at him with bright emerald eyes, warm like grass during the summer. He holds moments like this very dear to himself—mornings when it’s just Draco and him and he can smother the once-cold Slytherin with touches, kisses, and sweet nothings without the fear of rejection.

“I really, really, really love you, you know that, yeah?” he says once again, just because he thinks the declaration can ease the intense emotion in his chest.

His husband’s mercurial eyes soften and a small smile grazes his lips. “Who would have thought that the Gryffindor Golden Boy will be _wrapped_ around an ex-Death Eater’s little finger?” He affectionately brushes raven-black hair from slightly tanned skin and presses a small kiss on a lightning bolt-shaped scar. Harry hums his contentment and gently holds Draco’s hips.

“You’re more than an ex-Death Eater, sweetheart. You’re an excellent Potions Master, an amazing husband, a handsome male specimen, and a perfect Papa to four talented boys,” he mutters, nuzzling Draco’s jaw.

“It’s a good thing then that I love you, because otherwise, I would have run off and exercised my excellent traits somewhere outside Britain,” Draco replies before briefly kissing Harry’s lips. “Happy Christmas.”

Harry tries to chase more kisses with his lips, but Draco climbs off the bed. The house is surprisingly quiet once more, and he wonders if their sons are done with whatever racket they’re up to. Merlin knows and would shudder to the feats their sons can achieve, especially when all four of them put their heads together into something.

The wards set on their door shimmers before it opens to reveal Jamie wearing a royal blue sleeping gown. Harry barely notices the smirk in his eldest sons lips before he is tackled by a blonde ball dressed in red and green cotton pajamas.

“Daddy,” Percy pouts, a frown in his slightly flushed face. “It’s Christmas and Dobby won’t let me cook in the kitchen.” Percy’s bedhead is still prominent; he clearly hasn’t bothered fixing it in his excitement to get his Christmas plans into action early. Harry holds back a chuckle; the family’s sweet, little boy is honestly upset.

“Is this the reason for the ruckus a few moments ago?” Draco drawls, arching an eyebrow at Jamie, who walks into the room and sits at the edge of their bed.

Jamie grins and musses Percy’s hair further. “Yup. Little Lil here almost threw a tantrum when Dobby refused to let ‘Little Master Percy cook and hurt himself.’” He does a good imitation of the house-elf’s high-pitched and squeaky voice.

“Care to enlighten?” Harry asks, holding the snuffling Percy against his chest. The latter has clung to him—arms and legs—like a very upset octopus.

“Well, Lil clearly overheard the twins’ plans to wake up early, prepare Christmas breakfast, and fill the stockings with last-minute gifts. When he comes down to the kitchen with Al and Score preparing a feast, he got very excited.  He gets ingredients from the cupboards, saying he’ll also do his favorite pancakes into _something special for Papa, Daddy, Score, Al, Jamie.”_ Jamie gestures apostrophes with his fingers, looking at Percy very fondly.

Harry is surprised when Percy chokes back a sob and pushes away from him. Two little hands hold his face and he’s staring at teary green and silver eyes. Percy’s bottom lip is jutted out and trembling. _Oh Merlin,_ Harry thinks, briefly catching Draco’s eyes over their son’s shoulder, _he really_ is _upset._

“I wanted to make pancakes and waffles for all of you, Daddy!” Percy says emotionally. He briefly closes his eyes and tears leak down his cheeks. “I knew how to _op’rate_ the suitcase that makes waffles and the pan because I’d been watching you and Papa use them! I was excited to put strawberries, bananas, blueberries, chocolate chips, and my favorite fruits into the batter! But Dobby appeared and said that I– I– I s- _shouldn’t_ —”

Percy starts crying openly, tears freely flowing down his cheeks. He tries to stem them with his knuckles, but he is just so upset and he gives up. Harry hears Draco sigh resignedly and watches as he gathers Percy into his arms and shushes him. He reaches out a hand starts rubbing soothing circles against their son’s trembling back.

“And I wasn’t even planning to hold the knives, Papa! I was thinking of planning to ask Al or Score to chop them for me! But Dobby said _no_. He _didn’t_ stop saying n-no! It’s so unfair!” Percy sobs, fisting against Draco’s silver button down shirt. “Al and Score and Jamie can cook for you all for Christmas and I want to too, Papa! I _want to_ ,” he whines, still crying. Something in Harry seems to break while listening to his youngest son’s disappointment.

“Hush now, love. Hush now,” Draco soothes, trying to get Percy to look at him. “We’ll make it better, okay? Daddy will talk to Dobby. Hush now, baby. We’ll fix this.”

“But Albus Sev’rus and Scorpius Hyrpion and James Sirius are d- _done_ doing breakfast,” Percy cries softly. “What is there left for me t-to do?”

“Pancakes, you little muffin,” Scorpius, whom Harry has not noticed come in with Albus, says, lifting Percy from Draco’s arms. He wipes snot and tears from the little blonde’s face with the sleeve of his black pajamas. Albus sits beside Harry and rests his head on his shoulder.

“B-but… b-but, didn’t it fall down when I dropped it?” Percy asks doubtfully. Harry, however, can see hope flickering in his eyes.

“Nope,” Al says, and Percy quickly twists in Score’s arms to look at him. “I put a Stasis Spell on the batter before Dobby appeared and when you weren’t looking. So nothing spilled.”

Draco smiles and reaches up to rub the soles of Percy’s bare foot. “See? Daddy and I give you express permission to use the kitchen to make your special breakfast for us. Right, Daddy?”

“Right,” Harry says, smiling when Score rubs his nose against Percy’s cheek to make the latter squirm and giggle. “No one will be stopping you, little fruitcake.”

Percy, clearly no longer upset, giggles and mutters ‘fruitcake.’ He reaches his arms down, asking to be carried by Draco. The latter stands up and takes him in his arms. Percy kisses Draco on the nose and innocently asks, “Papa, if I’m Daddy’s little fruitcake, then are you Daddy’s fruitcake, then?”

Jamie and the twins snicker. “Of course, Papa is Daddy’s fruitcake, Lil,” Jamie says mischievously.

“You don’t have to ask anymore, Percy,” Score snickers.

“Don’t be mad, Papa. You know it’s true.”

“Besides, it’s Christmas.”

“And you love us.”

+

The glass double doors of the Phantasma Project main office swing open, and Christopher Ashford walks in. His gait is straight as always, his steps are sure, and his eyes are trained forward to the panel sitting around a round, granite-topped table. Three members of the Council, his daughter, and another student, Hunter, are present. He apologizes for his lateness and takes his seat, placing his wand on the table in front of him.

The Chair for the today’s council acknowledges him with a nod and turns to Hunter Robinson. “Now that we are in session, can the rapporteur state the Council’s agenda for this morning?”

“Certainly, Chair.” The svelte teen rises up from his seat gracefully and flicks his wand downward in front of him. A rectangular sheet of white light appears in front of him, and he starts to read. “There is only one agendum for the 25th of December’s _emergency_ meeting. Mr. Ashford is expected to report about the turnabout two days ago.”

He sits down beside Cal and delicately arranges his black, rectangular glasses in his straight nose. The Chair nods and shifts his stare at Calliope. “Clandestine Ashford, are we supposed to be in code in this meeting?”

“Yes, Chair. Since this will be a discussion about Ambiguous, everyone is mandated to talk in code. However,” she raises her wand hand as high as it would go and twirls it, resulting in a momentary hum being felt by the occupants of the room, “we are also in record. Reports and data will be accessible through the Chair and President Ashford two days from now.” In the dim light of the room, her amethyst eyes seem to glow; Christopher is sure that he’s not the only one who sees how they flicked annoyingly at the remaining empty chair in the room.

“Order, Clandestine,” the Chair says, annoyance clear in his face. “Fifth of this Council has not been notified about this meeting.” For a brief moment, Christopher sees curiosity flashes across the young Clandestine’s face, but she schools it back to indifference. The Chair continues, “I implore the Council to not interrupt President Ashford’s report.”

The President waits for a couple seconds of silence before he speaks softly, “There is no turnaround.”

“What-?” Third rises in his chair indignantly, but Chair stops him with a raised palm.

“Let President Ashford finish, Third. Your time to speak will come later,” he says then looks levelly at the President. “Why has there been no turnaround, President? What has happened?”

“Ambiguous does _not_ want to cooperate. I have already implored the help and presence of the British wizarding government’s first couple, but to no avail. He will not change his decision. Ambiguous does not want to have anything to do with us,”

“Has he set conditions?”

Christopher shakes his heads. _If only_. He could have made Harry Potter’s decision if he’s been in the latter’s position eleven years ago, but he knows better now. “No. No conditions, Chair. He seems resolute. Ambiguous is firm that he will not take part in removing bugs in the Project.”

“His reasons?” Chair scratches his chin thoughtfully, a sign that he is calculating.

Christopher steels and prepares himself from the laughter and mockery his answer will cause. “His family.”

The chuckles come from the Chair and Third. The latter sneers, “How naïve of him. This must be the famed Gryffindor foolishness I’ve been hearing so much about, no?” His drumming his fingers on the table top excitedly; his eyes are gleaming in a manic way. Anything about Ambiguous has always kindled something disturbing in the man.

Christopher flashes his daughter a _look_ when he sees her glaring at the Third distastefully. Her expression blanks but the fire hasn’t left her eyes. He clears his throat. “Ambiguous is quite the family man, as you might as well see.”

“He is of no use, then; he will only burden the Project’s progress if he chooses not to cooperate,” Fourth mutters, but everyone hears him over Third’s giggles.

Chair hums contemplatively. “Are you sure that there’s nothing that can be done, President Ashford?”

He shakes his head. “We do not know yet. The British Minister appealed for us to give Ambiguous some time.” He takes a deep breath. “I suggest that we let Ambiguous know the Project—with Clandestine’s permission and supervision, of course—and ask him what he wants to do, then.” _There_ , he thinks scathingly, _that should make it sound less manipulative of Potter._

Cal’s and Hunter’s eyes widen at his proclamation. “D…” she stops herself and clears her throat. “President Ashford, you’re kidding, right? Not just _anyone_ is let in on _the_ Project. What happens when he decides that he does not want anything to do with it? Eliminate him?”

“ _Clandestine_! You’re being quite the aggressive officer! Surely, you’re not serious about killing the Ambiguous?” the Chair chuckles. He is not affronted; rather, he is amused. Clearly, with how his face is alight, Christmas has gotten ten times better.

“I’m just speaking of the truth, Chair,” the young Clandestine replies hotly. “I will not be surprised if Ambiguous’ mind can cast off a Memory Charm; he’s also become a formidable Occlumens after he bonded with the Phoenix. In the same vein, a soul bond will permit the Phoenix to know that someone or something has meddled with Ambiguous’ mind.”

“And the Bodies close to the Ambiguous will do their best to break any Memory Charm, mind obstruction spell, or _any method_ that we will use,” Hunter adds, looking as annoyed as his seatmate. “Clandestine here is dissuading everyone from voting into letting Ambiguous know about the Project.”

“No matter how limited the knowledge,” hisses Cal with unmistakable vexation. “Intel will definitely _not_ cooperate.”

“But we can’t leave him alone,” Fourth says exasperatedly.

“And we cannot take him down, that is clear,” Christopher sighs. He does not really want to kill Ambiguous, even if this talk about him is keeping him from celebrating Christmas with his children. Harry Potter is _not_ expendable.

“Fine, then. Clandestine, our data and movements for the next month are fixed, yes? Is our Shadow ready?” Chair asks.

If the question confused the young officer, she does not show it. “Yes, Chair. I believe that I have presented those to you last week. And Shadow is in Britain right now. He is ready.”

“Great. I propose that we cancel _all_ operations for next week,” Chair says excitedly. There’s silence in the room, as everyone processes what has been said. Finally, Cal stands up, her hands balled into fists.

“But there is only _one_ intervention next week—“ she starts but stops when Chair grins like the Cheshire cat. Christopher does not know what they are talking about; data are always presented to the Chair first before the whole Council. He gets worried, however, when Cal’s eyes widen, understanding grazing her features. “You’re serious? _You_ are willing to _do that?_ ”

Chair smiles coldly. “Yes, I can. I suggest that you do that immediately after this, officer.” He claps his hands twice. “Council is dismissed. A very _Merry_ Christmas everyone.”

Christopher watches as his daughter, pale and in shock, drops in her chair. Honour for the Phantasma Project or not, he will know what exactly Chair has ordered his daughter to do. However, before he can come over to the Clandestine, a hand clamps down on his shoulder.

He turns. “Chair.”

“President Ashford,” the head of the Council says silkily. The man is leering at him. “You’ll be staying here in New York for the rest of the next two weeks, yes? Your work with Ambiguous and Hogwarts immersion has taken priority over your other duties. I send my early congratulations to the government.”

He sees what the Chair has been talking about, though. “Does this have anything to do with your order to the Clandestine?”

The Chair shrugs and, as he walks away, calls back at him, “Why do you sound so suspicious? We all have work to do.”

+

Oh yes, Cal is swearing now. She rarely does it, but in her mind, she’s already spewing every expletive she’s ever encountered in her sixteen years. Beside her, Hunter is waving his wand, renewing the privacy wards and coding spells, and transforming the minutes of the meeting into a small sphere of white light. His other hand is on her upper back; an inconspicuous gesture that is meant to keep her from losing control.

“Breathe, Cal,” he murmurs, ending his ministrations with a downward flourish of his wand. He pulls her up from her seat and Cal feels a twisting in her gut. They have apparated to her office at Intercept.

Cal sinks down into her leather swivel chair, feeling lightheaded, nervous, and angry. She waits for Hunter to activate the strongest privacy wards in her office before letting out a shout of frustration. Her best friend leans against the wall beside her desk and whistles softly. “Are you gonna do it?”

“Of course I have to do it. It’s an order, Hunter,” she replies through gritted teeth. Mind whirring and getting ahead of her, she starts opening files and databases in her computer, showing her the schedules of the British operations for the Project. She’s gonna cancel, screw it, but that does not mean she’s not gonna do _anything._

“It’s in the New Year, isn’t it?” Hunter asks; he’s already moved around the desk and is standing behind Cal’s chair, watching her scroll through pages and pages of data.

“Yes. One week from now. They aren’t aware that we’ve known for quite some time.” She reads the list of the people involved in Tripping, a code for the operation.

“Do you think they’ll change their plans?”

Cal shakes her head, summoning her warded magically modified phone from the far side of her black desk. “Probably not. They’ve invested a lot for this first attack. The only way they’ll balk is if they had any inkling they are anticipated. But it’s just me, you, and Chair who know about this.” She sighs exasperatedly and taps on her phone. She puts it against her ear. “Amber.”

The smooth, silky voice of a woman answers, “Clandestine.”

 _Here we go._ “Halt Operation Tripping. Everyone must be home within the next ten hours.”

There is a pause and Cal can feel the bewilderment from the other end of the line. However, an order is an order. “Crystal, Clandestine. The base will be cleared by fourteen o’clock.”

She nods then glares at Hunter’s raised eyebrow. She holds up a hand at him. “And Amber? I need a drive in your Audi to the University. Make sure it’s here by fifteen o’clock.” She hangs up and arches her eyebrow at her best friend. “You coming with me?”

Hunter rakes his hand through his long, strawberry blonde hair. “You’re really getting involved in this, aren’t you, Calliope Athena?”

“Of course, I am. We still need to plan, but… we can’t just let what Chair wants to happen, _happen_ , right?” She has never met the Malfoy-Potters, and she still does not understand why Ambiguous will refuse to cooperate with the Project, but she’s not heartless. She’s sixteen years old, the youngest head of Intercept—the intelligence division and the _mind_ of the Phantasma Project. There’s a reason why she, with the help of Hunter and other Interceptors and Coders have built their lives and energies in the job. She’s absolutely certain it’s _not_ letting people die.

“You’ll be disobeying the Chair?” Hunter mutters. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“Hunter, love, we’re not really disobeying the Chair; I, in fact, did what he demanded, right?” Cal starts putting up data in her computer. “This is our own decision. We’re protecting—or helping?—that family, even if Phantasma will not. Chair thinks that Ambiguous will probably change his mind after being attacked, but that’s not what the Project is all about. He’s playing Ambiguous like a dog and I… I’ve never felt comfortable with that kind of thing. Besides, his family doesn’t have to suffer for this, Hunter.”

“Suffer so early?” her best friend smirks. He waves his wand over the printer and it starts spewing pages; these were charmed to turn into gasoline when taken beyond a fifteen meter-radius from the Clandestine.

“If you say so,” Cal mutters, no longer focused on the banter with her right-hand man. She’s busy making an itinerary in her mind, trying to make a ten-man intervention strategy work for three to five people. She’s not worried about Christmas; if everything goes well after her talk with her father after this, he’ll be distracting the rest of the Council for the rest of the week. And they can proceed well.

“If the Project hasn’t been paying me well and you are not as capable as you are rebellious, I will _not_ be in on this. You’re a distress to my talents, Ashford,” Hunter grumbles the last words under his breath, but Cal only ignores him. She knows the truth, of course. Hunter’s reasons for going with this are as deep as hers.

+

A few hours before the twenty-fifth of December ends, with a burst of green flames, the Fifth of the council emerges from the fireplace. He steps into a luxuriously furnished suite in a Muggle hotel in Rome, the city of lovers. He looks around with satisfaction, immediately pleased with the heavy, red velvet curtains around the large, circular bed in the middle of the room.

However, there is _only one kind of red_ that he is hungry for. As he sits on a high-backed couch near the bed, waiting for someone, he thinks about how fortunate it is that the Project has halted all operations for this holiday. He’s pretty sure that for this, he’ll abandon anything.

The one he is waiting for emerges from the bathroom, soft skin wrapped in a fluffy white towel. Flowing, red hair fall in one shoulders and brown eyes flutter at him seductively. “Miss Weasley,” he breathes.

With cat-like grace, Ginny Weasley walks over the Fifth and straddles him, one hand fluttering over the twist that secures the towel around her body. “You have what I need?” she purrs.

“Of course, I do. I have it right here,” Fifth replies weakly, his fingers running through the sweet-smelling, damp red hair, down flawlessly smooth shoulders.

“I do trust you,” Ginny says. She delicately wraps her arms around his neck, drawing him closer to her. “But before that…”

The Fifth’s defenses are down and he feels like his blood is singing in his veins. His heart thrums in tune with the melody of Harry Potter’s ex-girlfriend’s seduction. As Ginny makes him forget for a while, reason leaves him, and he is foolish enough to assume that a small amount of information, few pulls of strings here and there, are a worthy price to pay for this Yuletide indulgence.


	5. House of Shattered Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here's Chapter 5! Hurray! I thought that I won't be able to upload this before Thursday. *sighs in relief*
> 
> Anyway, I just want to make clear that I have no beta. I am aware that I have so _many_ errors in the previous chapters, and I will rectify those, once my exams are over. Speaking of exams, I have a lot this week, so you'll have to wait until Saturday for the next chapter. 
> 
> I've also changed the title to **Nowhere is Safe.** :) The summary has changed too. I want to thank all those who're supporting this! I hope you stick with me. The Malfoy-Potters are getting into sticky business.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Implied Violence, Little bit o' Fluff

The days after Christmas passed by so fast for Harry, and now, it is the day before New Year. He has been busy at the Auror Department, preparing for the reopening of Auror classes in February, sorting the new batch of trainees, holding meetings with the Senior and Junior Aurors, and rechecking the security plans for the arrival of Salem Academy students.

Harry, as Head Auror, is expected to only meet with different division heads in the Ministry, delegate tasks to his subordinates, hold strategic meetings with them, oversee all the work and missions, and write and collate narrative, budget and strategic reports of his division. Apart from these, Harry also likes to work with the other Aurors. This is why he sometimes heads missions and joins the dangerous raids. It’s not just to increase manpower; Harry does not like staying in the Ministry trading pleasantries with other people of position while his men are in the heat of the _real_ battle.

In his opinion, though, the most hateful thing that a Head Auror must do is dealing with reporters. Nosy, pouty, red-lipped, eye-shadowed, shrill-voiced reporters who glare at him from the other side of his desk when he refuses an interview for the front page of the _Daily Prophet—_ just like what this one is doing right now.

“Parkinson,” he sighs, for the fourth time, “I can’t disclose our department’s plans for the exchange program. This is a Confederation matter. I can’t answer your questions.” He tries to sound placating, tries to keep himself from snapping at his former Hogwarts schoolmate. Really, he _does_.

Pansy Parkinson has matured into an acclaimed, sensationalizing reporter who takes after Rita Skeeter, from her controversial, and twisted headlines to the crocodile skin shoulder bag. Only, she seems to be more obsessed with Harry than the retired blonde journalist has ever been. She visits him in his office every Thursday, trying to get the “Chosen One’s opinion on the latest juicy bits of the wizarding world,” in her tight, black, long-sleeved blouse, Slytherin green pencil skirt, and brightly-painted nails.

Harry notices that they are bright yellow this week as she tucks her dark, sleek hair behind her ear. She pouts her extra-glossed pink lips and leans forward. “But Head Auror Potter,” she whines, “of _course_ this is a national concern. The Ministry will let in Muggle lovers in one of our country’s best and greatest schools. Parents need reassurance.”

“Well, I suggest you ask for an interview with Terry Boot, then. He’s the head of the Education Innovation and Communication Division,” Harry says, professionally ignoring Parkinsons’ poor but blatant attempt to look sensual.

She grins mischievously and flutters her eyelashes. She looks at him through her long, mascaraed lashes as she makes a show of writing a note in her planner. “Well then, if you refuse to comment and appease your fellow parents in the wizarding world, maybe you can just tell our curious citizens about your reunion with your ex-girlfriend, Ginny Weasley? That article about the two of you hugging in Diagon Alley is a rave.”

Harry, who only reads the _Prophet_ ’s News section because he’s the Head Auror, never peruses the Society Pages. He feels slightly miffed that they will interpret even an innocent hug with his best friend’s sister, his former schoolmate, as something malicious. “I haven’t seen her in seven years. I’m happy she’s back, in a very platonic way.”

Parkinson’s eyebrows shoot up. “You didn’t plan to meet her there?”

“No. Why would I? I was just out with the twins,” Harry replies, and stops in time from cringing when a predatory grin is plastered back on her face.

She stands up, still grinning, and says, “Well, I’ll be back next Thursday, Head Auror Potter. I need to brew an antidote for something that’s obviously cooking. I suggest that you call Mr. Malfoy-Potter after this. Is he reading the Society Pages? Maybe. Well, ta ta.”

She leaves his office, and Harry, bewildered, stares at the closed door. He stands up, checks that he still has more than fifteen minutes before his next appointment, and goes to the Floo room connected to his office.

He crouches on the thick, soft rug in front of the fireplace, sticks his head into the emerald green flames, and calmly states, “Living Room, Potter Chateau!” He knows that the boys and Draco will be having their brunch in the living room, watching a Muggle, animated movie that Percy insists on watching for the nth time.

After the very uncomfortable sensation of his head spinning in his shoulders, Harry opens his eyes and sees the soft creams, blues, and greens of the family living room. He calls out, “Draco, love? Boys?”

 _“Daddy!”_ There is a sound of excited footsteps and then Percy is sitting in front of him, holding a medium-sized glass bowl of what looks like his Frooty Loops and blueberries. “Hello, Daddy. Papa let me eat my cereals and fruits because I finished my peas and my celery soup and my broccoli.” His nose scrunches distastefully, but cutely, at the mention of his vegetables.

“Really?” Harry chuckles. “Well, I should reward you, too, don’t I?”

“Hurray!” Percy beams at him, and sets aside his bowl to lean forward on his arms to Harry’s face. He whispers, “Will you buy me the Skittles again, Daddy?”

“If that’s what you want, my little prince.” _Thank Merlin that Percy isn’t spoiled even if we indulge him every now and then,_ Harry thinks, looking at his youngest son fondly. Just then, Score flops down behind Percy and waves.

“’Lo, Dad.” There’s a hesitance in his eyes that Harry does not miss.

“Score, where’s your Papa?” he asks, Pansy’s ‘advice’ starting to niggle uncomfortably in his mind.

Score shrugs, pulling Percy closer to him. “Well, he’s at the apothecary with Al; he says that there’s a large rush order of Sleeping Draughts for St. Mungos that he wants done with.”

Scorpius’ words ‘he says’ clues Harry about his son not really buying his Papa’s reason. He doesn’t, too. His husband never accepts large rush orders of Sleeping Draughts from _anyone._ The thing is addictive; Draco always requires Ministry clearances and thoroughbackground checks on clients who try to acquire potentially harmful potions before accepting orders. The fact that the former prince of Slytherin (now _Harry’s_ , thank you very much) has lied so badly to his sons makes Harry definitely worried now.

“Score, what happened? Is it something in the Prophet?” Harry asks, holding on to his composure, even if his hands are curling into fists in the thick carpet. Something dangerous like fury flashes in Scorpius’ eyes that he almost looks like a younger Harry, only with the pale, blonde hair, and heterochromic eyes.

“Lil, can you go to the kitchen and ask Winky to make for me some of her ham and cheese sandwiches? Then you can go put in the movie that you like while you wait for me,” he says calmly so that their little prince does not notice anything. Harry feels proud that Scorpius, despite getting his Gryffindor-ness, can hold in his emotions so smoothly like Draco. The pride is brief, because whatever Draco’s reaction has been this morning must be so serious that Percy should not hear it. It makes Harry want to run to his husband.

“I want to watch Olaf, Score. Can I?” Percy asks, getting up on his feet.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s watch Frozen,” Score replies, handing him his snack bowl. “And you can tell Winky, too, that I let you have extra fruits from the pantry. But,” he holds an excited Percy’s shoulders to stop his bouncing and says, “you should eat some of the sandwiches, too, even if they have pickles.”

“Okay!” shouts Percy happily. He turns to Harry and blows him a kiss. “Daddy, I’ll go watch Olaf! Please come home early, later. I love you! I’ll miss you!” He blows him two more kisses then runs out of the living room, shouting excitedly for Winky.

Harry chuckles at Percy’s fondness of a talking snowman, and then turns to Scorpius. “What happened?”

His son sighs, and then says, “Well, Papa does not read the Society Pages of the _Prophet_ anymore, right? Apparently, they thought that it will be amusing if they make a huge special out of your meeting with _Ginny_ more than a week ago. The headline reads  ‘ _New Turns and Chances for Hero Harry Potter and New Beginnings with_ Heroine _Ginny Weasley_ ,’ he makes apostrophes while saying the headline contemptuously. “Papa shouldn’t have known about the stupid article, _but_ people have to rub it into his face. They sent him _Howlers,_ Dad. _Howlers._ Howlers that did nothing but laugh at him and say that they will have fun watching _Ginny Weasley_ take what she really deserves that a _Death Eater scum_ like Papa _stole_.”

Harry isn’t sure if Score sees how pale he has become with anger, no, _fury_ , through the flames, because he says, “I know, Dad, I know. It’s just good that Dobby apparated Percy out of the kitchen after seeing the Howlers. They were even charmed so they can’t be destroyed.”

“What the fuck—“ Harry feels so angry that he is already past swearing while in a conversation with one of his sons.

“Yeah. Papa acted like nothing happened, of course. After seeing the article from today’s newspaper, he suddenly said that he has to go to the apothecary and we should look after Percy. We do know how Papa feels when people throw horrid things like that to him. He tries to hide it from Jamie, Al, and me, but we know that he can be insecure sometimes. He does not blame you for the article, by the way. It’s just that he feels guilty for even doubting you and himself, after all you’ve given him, Dad. It’s just so painful that he thinks he has to deal with it on his own, you know? That’s why Al followed him to the apothecary to make him go home, instead of brood in a dark laboratory alone.”

Harry’s heart clenches in his chest. He fights the expletives that threaten to roll out of his tongue and just asks, “You do know that I love your other father and I’ll do anything for all of you, right?”

Scorpius smiles and rolls his eyes. “ _Duh_ , Dad. Of course, we do. Remember what Al and I said more than a week ago before that Ginny arrived? The wizarding world should see that no two people have fallen in love with each other as deeply and greatly as you and Papa.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Score.”

“Yeah. That’s why you should propose to him and marry him again. We should make it as grand as possible. Rub it in their faces that Harry Potter is smitten and devoted, and those who are against it are _nobodies_ who should just stuff it.”

Harry thinks of the red, velvet box he’s hidden in his small safe in the office. Somewhere Draco will never think of looking into. “I have to go to your Papa.”

“That, you should,” Score says. “Make things okay for him again, Daddy. Tell Papa we’re want to show him that we love him again and again.”

Harry chuckles. “Look after your brother.”

“ _Duh._ Of course.” He rolls his eyes, but smiles. “You look after Papa. Bye, Dad. Love you.”

Then, he is gone. Harry smiles at his son’s rare declaration of affection, and pulls out of the fireplace. He ignores that familiar, but still so _uncomfortable_ , spinning sensation.

First, he’ll settle some matters in the department. Then, he’ll proceed to Diagon Alley. To propose to Draco.

+

Calliope and Hunter, despite serving internships in some Muggle institutions, are not attending any university. When Cal has asked Amber Babbie a ride to the _University_ in her _Audi,_ she has been talking in code. She has been, actually, asking to be picked up from the Project’s Main HQ by Amber’s twin, Ether. Now, she and Hunter are kipping at the Babbies’ flat in London for a week now, poring over maps, print-outs of data, and reports of spell research.

All these files are from a private database that she illegally maintains; it contains copies of all the contents of the Intercept’s and Clandestine’s data vaults. The database is designed like a Muggle compact hard disk, but is made up of platinum and silver. Hunter calls it their Magnum Opus, or the _Standard_ , because it _is_ the stuff of dreams for Wizarding information management operations and systems.

It functions like a Pensieve, but so much more; stored in it are records of all the research studies ever done in Intercept, minutes and Records of all the meetings conducted regarding the Project, profiles of the people working for the Project, reports of missions and operations by Shadows and Agents, and, most importantly, triplicates of intelligence data digitally and magically nicked from Muggle criminal organizations, governments, and research facilities. The Standard responds only to Cal’s magical signature; even if someone has broken into it, he or she will be lost in the ocean of data. The young Clandestine is also the only person who knows the indexing system of the Standard, _very_ different of that from the Intercept’s.

Right now, it is shrunk into a pendant around Cal’s neck, having already provided the data they will need for modifying Operation Tripping.

“I almost forgot how much fuss the British wizarding public is putting up with Harry Potter,” Hunter says above Cal. He’s sprawled on the soft leather couch reading _The Daily Prophet_ ; he’s announced his exhaustion and apparent revulsion of data half an hour ago.

Cal, who is sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, looks up from the Muggle hit men profiles she’s been reading. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I really don’t know what good they’re getting from it.”

“Uh, money? Amusement? A pastime?” Hunter replies absentmindedly, apparently immersed in the article that Cal cannot see.

She shrugs, arranging the piles of paper into folders. “I was referring to the people, stupid. I don’t understand why they can’t just leave the Head Auror alone. It’s bordering on hero worship, and it’s disturbing. I’m not undermining what he did to the wizarding world—even if it’s to Britain, who can say that the lunatic wouldn’t have brought his doom to US?—but it’s been twenty years, right?”

“You should say that to them,” Hunter replies, looking at her seriously. “We did not experience war, Cal. At least, not _that_ kind of war; goodness knows we’re in the eye of another one starting. But you know people have always felt the need to worship _something_. Harry Potter _is_ powerful. People will have to idealize and think they own him. Even Muggle power-hoarders are after him.”

“Well, _what_ is the article about?” Cal asks a little too enthusiastically, not wanting to talk about an upcoming war. As far as she is concerned, she does not want things escalating to that. She thinks of the Intercept and all the people who are relying on her instructions and deduction. A teenager can’t _ever_ be ready for that kind of responsibility and accountability.

“It’s just gossip about Harry Potter meeting up with his ex-girlfriend from Egypt in a bookstore,” mutters Hunter. He turns the paper around so Cal can see the large headline spanning the whole spread, and a picture of Harry Potter and a ginger-haired woman hugging. There were smaller photographs of them talking on the couch, showing the occasional touches from the woman.

“That’s Ginny Weasley, huh,” she says incredulously, remembering Snoop reports about Fifth meeting with the woman during his work-free days. She calls them Snoop reports because they’re relatively insignificant, but necessary, reports about the actors in the Project. Only the Clandestine can access the Snoops, so Hunter does not know about Fifth’s amour toward the “heroine.”

“What?” he asks.

“She’s Fifth’s lover, apparently,” Cal answers nonchalantly, standing up and stretching. Though their reinforced privacy wards are up, she prefers to speak in code. Ether Babbie, though a very trusted friend of theirs, is still a Shadow, and there are things that he is safer not knowing about.

“Fifth?” Hunter snorts. Then he mutters, somewhat bitterly, “Figures that he’ll be bisexual.”

Cal’s eyebrows shoot up at her best friend’s slip of tongue. “Hunter? Did that… that _git_ ask you _out_?” she asks incredulously. Sure, Fifth is a handsome guy, though a little older than them, and he is also outspoken, loud, the life of the party, and good at charming people. He also has to be a brilliant wizard, or he will not be part of the Council. Still, though, he is the least of the Five and Chair is starting to have suspicions on him.

 _Her_ Hunter, on the other hand, is studious, observant, and sensitive. His sharp tongue and cold, condescending demeanor makes him one of the most intimidating figures in the Intercept, next to Cal. Nothing, she’s always believed, can faze or unsettle her best friend. That’s why the Clandestine is surprised when her best friend’s cheeks and neck turn red and he looks away. “Funny to think that there _is_ something that the _Clandestine_ doesn’t know,” he sneers.

She raises both of her hands apologetically. “Well, sorry, if I trust you so _much_ I no longer read Snoop reports about you,” she says, trying to placate his embarrassment. She moves towards the couch and sits near his head.  Instantly, Hunter shifts up so he can rest his head on her lap. He hums when she starts playing with his soft, strawberry-blonde hair. “Oh, Hunter. When?”

“Five months ago, after we found out about the interest in Ambiguous. He told me he liked me and though I am younger than him, he is willing to work it out, take things slowly,” he whispers, removing his glasses and placing them on the table. He holds onto Cal’s knees and squeezes. “I refused him, though.”

Something in Cal breaks for her best friend. “Because you had to.”

“Yes, because I had to. I _had to,_ ” he repeats more firmly, his grip on her knee starting to hurt. “That was the time both of us sensed that Chair is starting to suspect him. We know how wide Fifth’s networks are; I cannot risk being exposed to those while with him. I’m closest to the _Clandestine_ , for heaven’s sake. I had no right to take that risk for a _relationship,_ Cal. You know that.”

“Of course, I do, and I’m proud of you,” Cal took his free hand and gripped firmly to tell him she is _with_ him, and, mission or not, they have _time_ to discuss this. Hunter always puts work first; Cal is willing to put _him_ first for a time like this. “What you did is hard, and I’m _so proud_ of you, Hunter Robinson.”

She feels Hunter shake his head. “I had to do it. But…” There is a pause that Cal lets him have because he deserves it. When he speaks again, his voice is small and soft. “I can say now that I did the right thing. Not just for the Project, but for myself, too.”

“You really like him,” Cal marvels at the revelation. She looks down on her lap to stare at Hunter’s eyes, as bright, clear, blue, and breathtaking as a spring morning sky.

He smiles at her pathetically. “He said that he was willing to wait. That there was no pressure.”

This is the reason why Cal has never permitted herself to have fantasies about romantic relationships. People are capable of lying and doing terrible things. Her time as a Clandestine, privy to the darkest and deepest secrets of powerful people, magical or not, has opened her eyes to the fact. No, the reason she’s been okay with accepting her position in Intercept and keeping to herself, is that people can easily change their minds about you. One day, they can be spouting love songs and unconditional acceptance, but they can also be turning their backs on you the next.

Just like what Fifth has done to Hunter. It’s difficult to find someone who’ll stick with you whatever, whenever. Still, she does not want to fuel Hunter’s hurt; so, she will never tell him how Fifth has been meeting with Ginny Weasley for four months.

“I’m disrupting our mission, aren’t I? It’s tomorrow,” her best friend mutters, relinquishing his grip on Cal’s knee and reaching for his glasses on the table.

“No, you’re not. I’m glad you’ve got that out of your system, somehow,” Cal chuckles, gently prying Hunter from her lap and standing up. “We do need to have brunch now, since we failed to take breakfast because of all our planning. I’ll have it ready in an hour.”

Cal dispels the privacy wards they’ve put around the coffee table and couch, and then walks to the kitchen. She looks at the contents of Ether’s refrigerator to see if there is something else she can prepare alongside omelets with leftovers. She reaches out for what looks like a pack of bacon at the far end of the freezer when she hears a muffled gasp and running behind her.

“ _CAL!”_ Hunter gasps behind her. She turns around and sees the deathly pallor of his face and the sheets of paper crinkling in his clenched fist. “Cal... How can we have overlooked this? This report… This file about the… the anticipated _,_ it’s _not_ been sent to be stored in Japan. It’s a communication to _Japan_.” He is frantically pacing around the room now. “That… that means that our understanding is wrong and it’s not tomorrow, Calliope. It says New Year in Japan. That’s _today_.”

“Today,” Cal repeats, the color also draining from her face and dread starting to wrap its tentacles around her insides. Her fingers are numb from clutching the pack of frozen bacon and her back is cold from having to stand up with an open fridge behind her, but she does not care. “Oh _hell,_ what a stupendously stupid mistake for us to make.”

She’s gonna be sick.

+

“Hey, mate,” Ronald Weasley says, leaning on the doorframe of the Head Auror’s office. Harry looks up and grins at him. Harry has sworn to himself at the beginning of the divorce of his best friends that he’ll be there for both of them, even if it will take years before they’ll be able to spend time together.

“Ron, what’s up, mate?” he replies, going back to rummaging in his safe for the certain red box. He makes a small sound of triumph when he sees it; he puts it in the pocket of his robes, deciding to look decent when he pops the question to Draco. He motions for Ron to sit on one of the chairs opposite his desk as he settles in his own chair.

“Nothing, I just thought to stop by and say hello after visiting Dad at the Muggle Liaison Office,” Ron answers, shrugging. Something tells Harry that something is bothering him, though.

“What’s the matter, Ron?” he asks, worried. He can’t deny that it is Ron’s infidelity that caused Hermione to file the divorce, but ever since the process started last year, the redheaded man has become more and more withdrawn. Harry’s heart always breaks whenever he sees how their family has broken apart.

Ron gives him a small, forced smile, “Nothing, mate. Can’t I say hello to my best friend?”

Harry cringes when he realizes he hasn’t seen nor contacted Ron since Christmas. “Sorry, mate. I’ve been busy with work, and the kids being home and stuff.” He feels like he’s tiptoeing around the subject of family whenever he is with Ron now. Harry, after learning that Ron is going out with Lavender Brown, thought that his friend would be feeling a little better. Sadly, looking at the perpetual sorrow in his eyes, it clearly isn’t the case.

He feels conflicted; he wants to comfort Ron, to reassure him, but he also wants to be at Draco’s side as soon as possible. His discomfort must have shown in his face, but Ron misinterprets his grimace. “Hey, mate, you don’t have to feel sorry for me, you know. I like hearing about your kids and… and how good it is between you and Draco. I’m happy for you.” There’s a pause, then, “Even if Rose is not talking to me, and Hugo’s having trouble having sleep.”

Harry aches for his best friend and he feels horrible for not knowing how to make him feel better. He says the first thing that enters his mind, “Hey, what do you say about having New Year’s dinner with us? You can bring Lavender and the kids, if they want. Draco, the boys, and the elves are sure to cook up quite a storm, and we’ll need all the help we can get in eating all that up.”

Ron grins, the first real one since Harry’s seen him at the door of his room. “That sounds good, mate. Thanks for offering. We’ll be there…” He pauses, apparently thinking, then his face brightens up once more. “Yeah, we’ll definitely be there. Things are still awkward at the Burrow, so I want to keep my distance for a bit, y’know? Thanks for offering mate.”

He stands up and Harry does too. With a sudden burst of inspiration, Harry walks around the table and gives Ron a brotherly hug and thump on the back. He says, “Things will get better, yeah? I know you, mate. You’re strong.”

Ron looks at him, his blue eyes shining with something strong akin to gratitude. “Thanks, mate. Really ‘preciate it. Say hello to Draco for me. I have to get back to the shop.” After another brief flash of a grateful smile, he leaves.

Harry sighs, thinking about how he hasn’t been there at all for Ron, and decides to rectify that. His best friend hasn’t really been supportive about his marriage with Draco, but his own divorce has made him see the beauty of being with your soul mate, and he’s began to respect what Harry and Draco have. He’s stopped being cold towards the former Slytherin then, transitioning from civil to warm and friendly.

“Right now, though, I have to comfort and shower my affection on my lovely blonde,” Harry mutters to himself somewhat longingly, as he stands up and walks to the Floo room.

+

_“Lyric, can you hear me? Over.”_

“I can hear you clear and crystal, Valentine. Lyric in position and waiting at Plot eight. Over,” Cal mutters under her breath. A very small, diamond and silver microphone is attached on her biggest molar, while the receiver, another diamond, is pierced in the inner fold of her ear. It’s one of the Intercept’s inventions, used by Shadows and Agents during field operations. Hunter is wearing the same devices, except that his microphone is a tongue piercing.

She’s at Plot Eight, a code name for the bookstore in front of Draco Malfoy-Potter’s apothecary, where the Muggles will attack. She doesn’t have the means in determining magical people from Muggles so all she can count on are the profiles of the Muggle mafia fellows she’s been perusing since the beginning of the preparations for this operation. She’ll be relying on her memory in recognizing them; since Muggles do not have access to Polyjuice Potions, and prosthetics are a hassle in battle, they will not be able to change their appearances.

“I swear, Valentine, once we’re done here, we’re developing a Muggle detecting device. Something classy, discreet, and portable. I can’t believe no one at Intel has thought about this. Over,” Cal whispers under her breath. They’re still speaking in code, of course, and Intel, a Muggle computer company, is one of the codes for Intercept.

 _“Save your geekeries for later, Lyric. Valentine in position,”_ Hunter replies. _“One of the sons is in Plot seven. Over.”_

Cal, who is pretending to read a colored biography of Harry Potter in one of the shelves near the display windows looks up, and sees Hunter hovering near the stand in front of the apothecary, licking at a particularly large ice cream cone. The ice cream gives him an excuse to stop in front the apothecary, since Draco Malfoy-Potter has prohibited food inside his shop.

“Which son? Over,” Cal hisses, remembering to turn to another page of the book. She looks at the photograph of an eleven-year-old Harry Potter with his best friends Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. His younger self looks so skinny.

 _“Your half’s amour, apparently. Over.”_ There is a smirk in Hunter’s voice. “ _The bugs anticipated the Phoenix to be alone. What’s the plan now, Lyric?”_

 _Albus_. Cal’s mind is reeling.  Operation Tripping is supposed to be an intervention in the kidnapping of Draco Malfoy-Potter. Cal, upon learning about the plans after snooping in one of The Underground’s computers in Japan, has thought the Muggles are stupid for thinking they can just abduct an adult, pureblooded wizard.

That has been before they’ve found out about the Muggle shields against magic, though. They’ve also found out that The Underground has been developing small guns which, when fired directly in the back of person’s neck, can be deadly, as the bullets release electricity that destroys a person’s spinal cord. If the dominant magical theories are true, this will disconnect him from his magical core.

The previous plan has been to send ten Shadows and Agents who will monitor Diagon Alley for one month before the attack. There have been sightings of suspicious men in Muggle clothing milling around the apothecary; Cal suspects that these are from The Underground, keeping track of the routine and status of Harry Potter’s husband. They are clever though, because the Muggles never sent a spy twice.

On the day of the attack, the Project’s men were supposed to discreetly take down anyone suspicious who goes near the apothecary. With ten people trained in silent combat, Legilimency, and mind obstruction spells, it would have been a smooth and quiet operation.

Now, though, it’s just Hunter and Cal, and they will have to take a more direct approach in helping Draco Malfoy-Potter. With Albus in the picture, only time will tell if he’ll be a helping hand, or another person to save. Cal sighs.

“Valentine, let him be. I need you to look for potential bugs, over,” she whispers, looking over her book to look at the road. It’s a good thing that there aren’t so many witches and wizards in the street. It gives her a clear view of who is wearing Muggle clothes and not. She also sees Hunter give a long lick on his chocolate ice cream cone and arch his eyebrow in Cal’s direction.

 _“For someone comfortably hidden between books, you’re very bossy, over,”_ he mutters; even for the high-end sound detecting device, his voice is quiet. Cal bites back a snort and returns Harry Potter’s biography back in its shelf. She discreetly moves towards the entrance of the shop, not making eye contact with anyone.

“Moving out of Plot eight towards plot three, Valentine. Over,” she mutters under her breath, while walking quickly towards a fountain surrounded with benches. This way, Hunter and the apothecary will directly be in her three o’clock. She’ll be able to watch the road directly as Hunter moves inside the apothecary.

_“Right inside Plot seven, Lyric. There are only three Bodies present, including your half’s amour. The Phoenix is not in sight. Over.”_

“Got it. View from Plot three is clear. Over.” Cal sighs and waits. The Muggles should be arriving any moment now. The people in the streets are thinning as they return to their homes or go to restaurants to eat lunch. She and Hunter have been waiting for over an hour, but there’s nothing suspicious has happened. Unless…

“Hu—Valentine, check on the Bodies inside Plot seven. Quickly. Over,” Cal orders urgently.

_“Gotcha. There’s half’s amour pacing outside of what must look like a laboratory, an old woman browsing through the Potions books in display. She’s a witch, before you ask. I can see her wand. Lastly, there’s a small girl looking at ingredients. Barely Hogwarts age—“_

Cal hurriedly leaves her post and walks to the shop. Heart beating fast, nerve cells on frenzy and making her head ache, she pulls out her wand. The street is mostly empty now, except… except… As she draws closer, she sees it more clearly. At first, she thought it is a mirage, that it is a residue of magic that she’s seen briefly flicker, making the light near the entrance of the apothecary refract. It happens, she knows, especially in place saturated with magic, but now…

She sees it again when it flickers, showing black leather shoes near the road. Above, the aluminum barrel of what looks like a gun appears, aimed at Hunter, or _anyone_ inside the apothecary—

Cal breaks into a run, and points her wand fiercely, though she’s not feeling her body. She utters the spell in a calm voice that utterly masks the crazy torrent of emotions inside her.

_“Reducto.”_

+

Draco hears the explosion outside the shop, and hastily runs out of the laboratory. His knees buckle when he sees the shallow crater in the street, the bits of rock and cobblestone that are strewn across the floor, near the entrance, and the shattered display window.

“Albus? Albus! Where are you?!” He frantically looks around, but his vision is getting blurry around the edges. He’s getting dizzy with worry. He hasn’t eaten anything at all today, upset as he’s been with the damned article in the _Daily Prophet._ “Albus!”

A loud sound that is similar to a gunshot rips through the air and his heart drops. _You’re a wizard, Draco. Use your wand, idiot!_ he thinks. He staggers towards the entrance and whips out his wand, while looking around him for a sign of his son. There is shouting and grunting outside. A girl is swearing and shouting.

Right now, he’s no hero. No. Right now, he has to protect his son.

 _“ALBUS!_ Where are you?” he shouts, stumbling outside

“Mr. Malfoy-Potter, don’t!” Slender but strong arms are wrapped around his waist and stop him from going outside. Draco struggles to free himself. “Calm down. Your son… _Albus_ … he’s with me. He’s safe. Trust me.”

Draco sags in relief. He feels weak; he does not know why, but his legs feel like jelly. Boneless. His head is pounding, and his intestines feel like they’re flip-flopping in his gut. He’s tempted to sick up, but he has to get to Al. So, he allows the person to half-drag and half-carry him somewhere in the apothecary.

“Mr. Malfoy-Potter? Mr. Malfoy-Potter, what is it? What’s wrong?” the voice asks worriedly while he is being placed in one of the couches.

His eyelids feel heavy. His head is spinning, but he can still hear. Albus’ voice, though weak, reaches his ears. “Papa. Papa! What’s the matter?” Soft hands cover his, and he can smell his third son’s familiar scent of apples and peppermint.

“Al—“ Draco groans and starts throwing up on the floor.

Somewhere above him, the one who helped them swears. “Oh crap, Calliope needs help.”

“I can take care of them here now. I think… I think help is coming.” It’s Albus’ voice. He hears him summon a stomach potion, and then a cool glass vial is being tipped into Draco’s lips. He swallows gratefully. He still feels dizzy and weak, but at least the desire to puke is gone. “What’s happening to him?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to examine him, later. I’ll just… I’ll check on the kid over there.”

There are more gunshots outside, shouting, cursing, and explosions caused by spells. Draco tries not to think of how he could have prevented this from happening if he stayed at home and waited for Harry. Instead, he focuses on Albus’ hands and murmur, telling him about what he thinks is happening and how he’ll never leave his side.

“The boy said that they’re people from criminal organizations who want to steal something from Diagon Alley, Papa. Don’t worry. I think I can hear Daddy outside, fighting. Everything will be fine—“

“Albus! Stop her! Stop her! She’s an enemy—“

Draco does not know what is happening. One second, Albus’ calming hands are all over his, and then on the next, they’re gone. Al is shouting spells, shouting “No!” and then he’s shouting, “Papa!” He sees a burst of red light through his closed eyelids. He hears vials shattering on the floor, but not before he feels bitter cold being plunged in his back. He doesn’t know what it is, but it makes his throat constrict, and his chest tighten. He cannot breathe.

He struggles, but the best he can manage is a shuddering gasp tearing out of his mouth. After that, there is only silence and cold.

+

How can a small box feel so heavy all of a sudden? Harry thinks about this as he runs inside Draco’s apothecary, heart pounding in his chest. Just a few minutes ago, he’s been battling men carrying guns and wearing clothes that seem to absorb his magic. He’s aimed Stunning Spell after Stunning spell on their faces just because a girl around his twins’ age told him so. And they worked.

He knows who they are, of course—or where they’re from, at least. These are Muggles; there’s no doubt about it as they fire bullet after bullet that the girl has kept on blasting from hitting him or any other of his Aurors. He knows they’re here for him, or his family; it’s not that he’s forgotten Ashford’s warning. Accustomed to wars and the worst that people are capable of since eleven years old, Harry has taken the threat to heart. He’s added wards and detection spells in the shop and their house. He’s even avoided going on overseas trips.

When the fight is dying down, and most of the Muggles have been stunned, the girl turns to him and says, “You should check on your son and husband. We’ll clean this up. _Go.”_ He doesn’t even hesitate about leaving it to a teenager.

Now, Harry’s heart is beating the way it beat while walking into the Forbidden Forest twenty-five years ago at the Battle of Hogwarts. He cringes at the sight of the rubble in Draco’s apothecary, and tries not to think about how excited his husband has been about designing and building the place with him. He slightly slows down, stepping over the rubble, towards the sitting area, where he sees Albus on his knees on the floor, bent over a couch, shaking something. _That’s not—_

Harry’s heart clenches, but he ignores it. Unconsciously, he brushes his hand against the small box in his pocket and walks forward, much quicker this time. Albus looks up and he finally breaks down.

“ _Da- ad_ … Dad, help Papa, _Da-ad_ ,” he says over racking sobs and Harry runs to his son, where he’s met with the sight of his husband.

Paler than usual, his lips tinged blue, Draco, his love and his life, lies still. _No._ He kneels beside his son, and takes Draco’s limp body in his arms. Holds him against his chest. There’s a pulse—weakening, but it’s there— and Harry thinks he’s never felt anything more wonderful and beautiful in his life. His husband is cold, though; so very cold.

Harry thinks that he should have gone inside first and taken his family away—back at Godric’s Hollow, where it’s safe. He shouldn’t have made sure that none of the Muggles have slipped inside. He should have done _more,_ to protect them all. He’s sworn that he can do it—he and Draco _together_ —when he swore he can protect his family, that he does not need Ashford’s help.

He should have done _more._ Protected Draco. Then all of this could have been prevented.

But it’s too late to think about such things. “I need to bring him to St. Mungos,” he says, lifting Draco up in his arms. “Make a Floo call at home and tell your siblings about what happened.”

Albus nods as he gets up and wipes the soot and tears from his face. Harry notices another boy at the corner of the room, his arms bleeding. Beside him is an unconscious little girl, bound by silver ropes. “You should come back; there is so much that you need to know,” the boy says then jerks his head toward Al. “I’ll help him.”

Harry prepares to apparate, but Albus steps toward him and leans forward to kiss his Papa’s forehead. Harry presses his lips on his son’s forehead and murmurs, “He’ll be okay. Just look after one another.”

He checks for Draco’s pulse one more time, and then, with a crack, he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, review, or kudos! 'Til Saturday! :)


	6. Aching Dissonance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 6! *confetti* Thank you, all of you, who are following this story. It just gives me so much strength and inspiration, not just in this story but writing and studying in general, to know that there are those who read my work. So yeah, thank you!
> 
> Anyway, because exams happened, this chapter may have more than its fair share of mistakes. I did not have enough time to proofread; sorry 'bout that. If there are mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me! And if you have questions about the story that I can divulge, just ask. :) I appreciate all your comments. Thank you!
> 
>  **Important!Note (09MAR2015):** This is the complete version of this chapter. I just realized that there were parts missing in the previous one; so I replaced that with the complete one today. I encourage you to read it again to avoid confusion in the following chapters. :) Thank you!

The Healers work methodologically. Once Harry have landed on the lobby of St. Mungo’s, a group of people wearing lime green robes have rushed to the hero and taken his husband from him. If there are any days that Harry can be thankful for his name, this can be one of them.

He can’t be grateful right now, though, because Draco has become colder within the minute they’ve apparated from Diagon Alley. Harry has no idea about what to do except pace outside one of the private rooms where they’re treating his husband. _His_ Draco. He has given an account of what happened—that he’s been stabbed by some Muggle child with a knife, but after there seems to be nothing else that can help them identify what had been in the knife. Now, Harry can only imagine what they’re doing to Draco to help him.

He knows that he has to go back to Diagon Alley and help his men clear up the mess. He knows that he has to get a hold of the two teenagers who have been in the scene and find out who they are, how they know what they’ve been doing, and why they’re helping them. He knows that he has to go back to Godric’s Hollow and calm his children down. Albus can’t be calm. His son’s Slytherin demeanor can never persist in the midst of anything about their family. And Harry worries about him.

But, _Draco_.

He glances at the white door in front of him, beyond which, Draco lies. Is he still unconscious? Have the Healers identified what the Muggles have done to him? Have they measured how dangerous is the state he’s in? The Head Auror in Harry lies dormant and silent inside him; he knows the worst of poisons available in the wizarding world, but not Muggle ones. He has been made aware of the projects in the Department of Mysteries in trying to reverse the damage the Muggles’ chemicals have done to the world, but nothing more. The heavy presence of Muggle chemicals have negatively affected the growth of magical plants and creatures… who can say what they can do when ingested by a wizard?

He avoids thinking about it, though. He also avoids thinking about Ashford’s warnings. Harry Potter doesn’t know how to pray, and he doesn’t know where to ask for help for Draco. All he can do is wait for the Healers to finish and tell him _something_. Right now, his faith is in his lover, the mother and father of his children, and his partner for more than twenty years. He knows that Draco is strong. The man has survived a war, the reign of a Dark Lord in his own house, years of prejudice and hate, and bringing up four children.

Draco will survive this.

“ _Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”_ The breath is knocked out of Harry as a small body slammed against his legs. Two arms hold on tightly to him. When he looks down, he sees Percy, looking very little against him. “ _Daddy,_ what happened to Papa?”

There are tears in his face, and Harry’s question of who the little blonde has arrived with dies in his tongue. He stoops down so he is level with Percy’s face and uses his thumbs to wipe the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. “We still don’t know, baby, but bad people came to the shop today and attacked your Papa. The Healers are still tending to him.”

Percy’s breaths hitch and he starts sobbing loudly. Trembling, little fists clench Harry’s charcoal gray Head Auror robes. His cheeks start to redden and his chest heaves as he takes heavy breaths between his sobs. Harry’s heart breaks at seeing his son like this. He wants to comfort him, but he doesn’t want to lie. He wants to give comfort, but he doesn’t have it to give.

“Come here, Lil,” murmurs Harry and lifts him in his arms and starts to rock him. “Don’t be scared, okay? Don’t think that they’re taking your Papa away from you. He’ll be okay. He’s strong like you, remember?”

Percy’s sobs just become louder. They fill the empty corridor with intimidating, white walls, and Harry lets them. He can feel the uncertainty and fear that his youngest son is feeling. He just makes shushing sounds and rubs the small back. Percy’s wearing his day Muggle clothes: a pale blue button down shirt and khaki shorts. Harry wonders how the four-year-old has managed to find him in the hospital.

When he looks up, he momentarily forgets his fears when he sees one of the most bizarre scenes he’s witnessed for the day. Jamie, Al and Score are walking towards them, with the girl and the boy from the apothecary tied up and levitated in front of them.

“Dad, we brought them with us,” Jamie answers his raised eyebrow simply. He jerks his head towards the girl. “These two incapacitated your Aurors back at the apothecary. We can’t just leave them there.”

“Dad, Albus told us what happened. Is Papa okay?” Scorpius asks in a rush. His wand is held up, but he is eyeing a sobbing and shaking Percy worriedly.

Harry pats his youngest son’s back gently and looks at Score seriously. “We don’t know yet. The Healers are still tending to him.”

“The knife… I don’t know what was in it. I s-should have tried better to protect Papa,” Al whispers, clutching Hydra and Leo, Percy’s stuffed toys, to his chest. Harry feels the ache in his chest deepen at the guilt in Al’s eyes. He moves towards him and, with his one arm, holds his son against him.

“Don’t blame yourself, Al. It’s not your fault, son,” Harry says, pressing his chin on the top of his son’s head. He feels and tightens his hold against him when he feels the latter’s shoulders tremble.

“There’s nothing you could have done. It was a child that they used, for goodness’ sake,” the boy suddenly says. Harry looks at him. The boy’s height is average, but his posture is perfect, which reminds Harry of Draco. His strawberry-blonde hair is sleek and grows up to the lobes of his ears. A black hairpin keeps it from falling down his face. He’s dressed in Muggle clothes—a band shirt and ripped denims. He looks authoritative and just annoyed, as if there are no strong silver ropes wound around his arms and torso.

The boy’s eyes look dangerous despite their pretty blue color as they glare at Harry’s sons, though. “The attack had been carefully planned. You couldn’t have suspected a seven-year-old kid to do that to a full-grown wizard. Stop beating yourself up about it, Malfoy-Potter.”

The girl beside him bumps her shoulder against his and says, “Hunter is right, Albus. If there’s anyone to blame, we know who it is and it’s not you. But that’s another story for another day.” She projects calm and nonchalance, but Harry can see the storm brewing in her unique amethyst-colored eyes. They catch his and she says, “Head Auror Potter, it will be great if you can find a private room for all of us and _kindly_ ask your sons to untie us. It’s a rather ungrateful act, don’t you think?”

Harry, curious, troubled, and confused at the same time, distractedly nods and leads them to a private waiting room adjoined to Draco’s.  Percy is still crying, while Albus have calmed down. He takes Percy from his arms and hands him the stuffed creatures. He sits on the couch, where he lays Percy down and rests the blonde on his lap. Score and James have released the two teenagers but have not lowered their wands.

The girl takes a deep breath and exhales heavily, as if annoyed. “You know, it’s a good thing I’m sure that these marks will fade. If you’ve broken skin I would have attacked you,” she says, examining the dark pink welts on her forearms. She scowls at Harry. “Head Auror Potter, your sons do not know the art of questioning. They barged in and attacked _us_.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at the familiarity of the girl’s tone. It’s like she’s been used to speaking with adults and acting like one also. Her accent is also different. For a moment, suspicion replaces the nerves he’s been feeling for his husband. “Are the two of you Ashford’s men?”

His sons look up at the mention of the American president’s name. The boy, Hunter, just shrugs and flicks his eyes momentarily at the girl, before examining his arms under the sleeves of his shirt. They also bore the same pink welts, though not as bad as his friend’s. “Yours to answer,” he mutters to her, not at all uncomfortable about standing in the middle of a room.

The girl grumbles slightly then takes out her wand. With a complicated wave of her wand, she’s conjured a long, white, leather ottoman, which she sits on. The guy, Hunter, lays down on it quite gracefully, like an Egyptian pharaoh. His sons frown at him over the strangers. They look confused at the teenager’s actions.

“We’re not _Ashford’s_ men, per se,” the girl says, frowning at Harry slightly. “We don’t work at the American Government of Magic. That’s just weird.” She purses her lips.

“Stop making unnecessary statements, Cal,” the boy says, slapping her knees quite affectionately. He looks up at them, looking bored. “My name is Hunter Robinson, I’m her friend.” He jabs a thumb at the girl. “She’s Calliope Ashford, President Ashford’s daughter. We’re not working for him.” He fixes a steady look on Harry. “We can’t disclose the nature of our work, but I believe you’ve been warned about what happened today, right, Mr. Potter?”

Harry stares at the Calliope and Hunter. They can’t be any older than his twins, but they’re a part of Ashford’s schemes? They fight with the Muggles? He’s not supposed to comment on it, seeing that he’s already been fighting Death Eaters and Dark Lords at that age. Still, Harry has never thought of allowing his _sons_ being involved in what he’s had to face at their age. This is why he’s been working hard at the Auror Force. He has been thinking that if he can keep their world relatively safe, they will not be subjected to the trauma that he’s dealt with when he’s younger.

_But these teenagers…_

He mentally shakes himself and nods once at Ashford’s daughter. “Yes. Those Muggles are targeting me, right?”

She nods, satisfied. “I can’t really disclose what we’ve doing, Mr. Potter. We operate at the most sophisticated and complicated ways to maintain secrecy. Since you have expressed your disinterest in our cause, Hunter and I would withhold explanations that all of you—” Her eyes roam at other occupants of the room, “undoubtedly want, and to some extent, deserve.”

“Dad? What are they talking about? _Muggles_ did that to Papa?” James asks him incredulously. When Harry’s eyes leave the young Ashford to rest on his sons, he sees their confusion and hurt anger.

“The Muggles are targeting you? Why? Did Papa know, Dad?” Albus asks him with hurt eyes.

“Yes. Muggles are after me, and in a way, all of you,” Harry answers quietly, not meeting any of their eyes. Draco is supposed to be here to explain this with him to them. They should be doing this _together_. His fixes his stare on Percy, who has fallen asleep with his upper body on Albus’ lap. His arms are wrapped around his stuffed creatures tightly. Even in his sleep, he is squirming, and a prominent crease is between his eyebrows. His son looks so vulnerable and Harry’s heart goes cold when he imagines if even _he_ will not be able to protect his children.

“Dad?” Albus’ calls gently. He almost sounds like Draco, and Harry snaps from his reveries.

“Your Papa knew this, too, of course,” Harry tells them.

“Why _didn’t_ you tell us?” Score asks, looking utterly pained. He slumps against the wall, biting his lower lip, looking at the floor. “You were there worrying yourselves about a threat on the whole family, but you do not tell us. _Dad_ , you should have told all of us what’s happening.”

He meets Jamie’s gray eyes, and sees understanding in them. They look hurt too, but his eldest son doesn’t speak. Harry knows what’s going on in his mind, though. James wants to remind him that they’re not children, and they have not been raised unable to defend themselves. Harry and Draco have told them the reality of their roles in the past War once they are old enough. Their three sons have understood that the world can’t always be kind to them. There are people who will go to extremes to achieve their own interests, as well as there are people who are good and loving and brave. James, Scorpius, and Albus have grown into strong young men. Harry knows that they are capable.

However, in the past weeks, faced with the reality of another threat to his family, Harry can’t help but go back to how he’s had to face those dangers, sometimes wishing for his parents. As a parent, though, he’s not ready to send his children out to a world like that, when he’s been working so hard to change it to something safer and milder, than the one he’s grown up in.

Harry can see in their eyes that he’s disappointed his children, and he can’t take it. He _needs_ Draco. He needs his blonde with him to give him strength and to help him explain to their children the depths and intricacies of their love as parents, the desire to protect and shelter them, as well as the pride of seeing them grow up and become their own persons.

Someone clears their throat, and he and his sons look at the middle of the room to see the young Ashford standing up. “Hunter and I know what you’re feeling towards your parents right now,” she says quietly. “It’s the same argument we had to face with our parents when we wanted to do _something_ for this world, too. I also understand you, Mr. Potter, because I know that my mom and my dad love Hunter, my brother, and I. We have our reasons for being a part of this, the same way our parents have discovered their reasons for letting us do our part, the same way that other people also refuse to be a part of this.”

She gives Harry a steady look and takes out her wand. She raises it up and twirls it into a confusing series of counter-clockwise and clockwise waves and gestures while muttering under her breath, until Harry feels a brief hum and static of unfamiliar magic around the room. It fades after the moment, but Harry knows it’s still there, the ward humming and sizzling in its thickness and strength.

“We’ve set up one of our modified secrecy wards,” Hunter tells them, doing his own wand-waving. A small blue sphere appears at the tip of his wand. It looks like spun light, illuminating the pale boy’s face delicately. “This little ball here is our baby. Paired with our wards here, it will turn red once there’s someone approaching within ten yards of the room. Also, it takes in your magical signatures and will alert us if you tell a single soul about what is talked about here after this.”

James raises his eyebrows. “Minor tracking charms?”

Hunter smirks at him and sends the little sphere up with a flick of his hand. “Tracking charms with restricted effect. It doesn’t give us information about anything else you do, just whether or not you’ll be spilling our secrets.” He sits back down on the ottoman and crosses his legs elegantly.

“We have more some more things to discuss, Head Auror Potter,” Calliope says. She drops beside her friend and conjures a chair for him with her wand. “I ask all of you to please sit.” When everyone has seated, she begins. “It’s bad timing what with Mr. Malfoy-Potter in a very uncertain condition, but we have to discuss how to deal with this afternoon’s _other_ mishaps. As you well know, dealing with Muggles hit men is one of our specialties. We want to supervise the clear up operations, if you please.”

“What are you planning?” Harry asks, studying the two teenagers in front of him carefully. It’s obvious that they’ve done operations like this back in America. However, he has no idea what these operations entail, and how they will affect the British wizarding community. If he is right, this is the first time the Muggles have breached British wizarding territory. Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Muggle Prime Minister will have to be notified. Harry doesn’t think that he’s prepared to face an operation he is very emotionally involved in, though.

“Well, before your lovely sons have rudely interrupted and bound us,” Hunter says, studying his nails interestedly and ignoring the slap from Calliope, “we were about to Obliviate your Aurors, after setting up a Babel’s spell in that particular area in Diagon Alley.”

“Babel’s spell?” Scorpius asks. Even Harry hasn’t heard of a spell like that.

“Haven’t you heard of that religious Muggle story where Muggles attempted to build a tower as high as the sky to reach the gods?” Calliope asks. Only James gives a sign he recognizes the story, so she goes on to explain, “The story said that the gods weren’t really pleased; so, they made the Muggles speak different languages so they won’t understand each other and would just disperse and abandon the tower.”

“Cal and I designed a spell after the story,” Hunter says smugly. “We will not be explaining how we’ve come up with that, but let it to suffice to tell you that it blurs, modifies, and mixes up the memories of people within its reach about something they have recently witnessed. These people will also feel very uncertain, confused, and doubtful about what they remember, which, of course will worsen if they try to talk about it. This uncertainty will bring about different versions of the story, and will cause everyone to settle in a version that is very far from what actually happened.”

“It’s a good thing that we have cast the spell already, repaired the street and the shop, and gathered the Muggles and Aurors inside it before your sons came,” Cal says. “But we need to Obliviate your Aurors, Head Auror Potter. We need to replace the memory of the Muggles’ attacks with something simpler, more common, and _least_ suspicious. This ordeal with the Muggles has never been something that British Auror Force has to deal with, so it will be more beneficial if your Aurors do not know about it.”

“ _But_ these Muggles have breached the British wizarding security, Miss Ashford. How can you say that it’s not _our_ concern?” Harry asks. His words at the Weasleys’ sitting room flash back at him.

“It’s _not just_ the British wizarding security that they’ve breached, Head Auror,” Calliope corrects him; she does not sound like the teenage girl that she is at all. “This is the international wizarding security that this Muggle organization is threatening and is breaching in many ways _as_ _we speak_. And it’s not the Confederation’s, nor any wizarding government’s job to solve this. It’s _ours_. We are an organization that has taken the handling of this Muggle issue upon itself, Head Auror Potter.”

She sighs, but levels him with a very serious look. Calliope Ashford wears an expression that is a mixture of calculating, disappointed, annoyed, and condescending. It’s a look that makes her seem formidable, a look that Harry doesn’t like. “And, Mr. Potter, since you’ve expressed your utter disagreement in joining our cause, I believe that you have to let go of this event and leave it to us. You’ve refused our offer; you might as well turn your back completely from this,” she says quietly, but Harry knows that she _is_ aware of how hard this already is for him.

He can’t just turn a blind eye from this big thing that is happening, especially when he and his family are, against their decision, already in the thick of it. The Muggles are after them, and his sons are now aware of the threat to their family. _Of course_ , they will clamor to fight, to be part of whatever this young Ashford is talking about. There’s just too much mystery and confusion, but he cannot decide what to do yet—not until he has Draco back with him, conscious and _certainly_ safe, and then they’ll have to do this together.

“I still can’t let you manipulate the Auror’s minds against their will!” Harry protests, the ethics of his profession and position running through his mind. “I say that you bind them in a wizard’s oath, instead of messing up with their minds. Ms. Ashford, I cannot give you the permission about this.”

The girl glares at him. “There are many ways to go around a wizard’s oath, as you well know, Head Auror Potter. It takes great thinking and cunning, but it’s possible. We cannot rest and be complacent even with a very little percentage of risk. We will be proceeding with the clear up operations. This is how we work. Changing your men’s memories is the kindest we offer.”

A battle goes on Harry’s mind. He _understands_ , but he’s frustrated. Who are these people? Why do they have to operate in such complicated terms? Harry hears, at the back of his mind, a voice that sounds like Dumbledore’s saying _it’s for the greater good._

“We know that decisions like this are not to be made lightly,” Hunter says to him, almost kindly. He combs his hand through his sleek blonde hair and throws a smile at Harry’s sons. “That’s why we, at least Cal and I, are giving you time. You have to take care of Mr. Malfoy-Potter first, of course, but then your family needs to talk.”

“So,” the young Ashford says and clasps her hands on her knees, “do you allow us to take control, Head Auror Potter? We’ll be taking the Muggles in our custody and erase from your men’s minds any remembrance of what _really_ transpired today. They’ll remember just breaking a huge fight in the middle of the street and then sending the hooligans home. You can just provide the necessary details, Head Auror Potter.”

“If I say no?” Harry asks, already knowing her answer.

“We’ll still push through, I’m afraid.” Calliope shrugs. “This is just for formality’s sake. We do work underground. We have permission from the wizarding world’s higher ups, and we can always defend our case if you complain.”

“I’ll still insist that you bind them in a wizard’s oath for the time being, before you do something directly on them,” he insists, looking at Calliope’s eyes seriously. If Harry’s anything, it’s persistent, and the teenager’s eyes flare angrily with the color of lavender when she realizes this.

“Fine,” she says, almost petulantly, folding her arms across her chest. Harry holds back a sigh of relief. His Gryffindor ideals are satisfied, for the moment.

“What will you do with the Muggles?” Scorpius asks.

“Oh, we’ll experiment on them, of course. Look at their brains and see if they’ve drunk something and all that rot,” Hunter deadpans. Harry can hear the teasing tone in the statement, and is doubtful that Scorpius will appreciate that kind of attention in such a serious context.

Cal, however, slaps her hand on her friend’s shoulders and glares at him. “Hunter, _be nice_.” She sighs, “Generally, we’ll try to find out how they managed a feat such as today’s and other information. Then, I’m afraid we’ll have to hold them in a sanctuary. We can’t send them back to the Muggle world.” She stands up and stretches. “But we’ll send you anything that you _can_ know, Head Auror Potter. Especially about the chemical they’ve poisoned your husband with.”

Hunter stands up as well and holds up his hand. In an instant, the ball descends and rests in his palm. “We’ll know if they’ve healed your husband fully. If they haven’t, we’ll send anything that can serve as a cure, since we’ll be researching about the poison as well.”

The sphere glows pink. Harry thinks that it means that someone is approaching the door. He stands up as the chair Calliope has conjured for him vanishes.

“We’ll be seeing each other again soon,” she says, holding out her hand. Harry takes it and they shake hands. She nods to Scorpius, James, and Albus. “We’ll see each other again, too.”

“You’re from Salem, aren’t you?” Jamie asks, smirking at the two Americans. “You’re part of that immersion thing.”

“Of course, we are,” Hunter sniffs disdainfully. “Cal and I would not be any less.”

“You’re Crux Ashford’s twin?” Scorpius asks Calliope, eyeing her shoulder-length, dark brown hair. “You don’t look alike.”

“Wow, that’s rich, coming from you,” Al snorts, approaching them. He still looks wary around the two teenagers but he holds out his hand for Calliope to shake. She takes it with a small smile. “Does that mean that Crux is a part of this, too?”

“He isn’t,” Calliope replies. “He doesn’t know anything about this.” She steps away and winds her arm around Hunter’s elbow. “Anyway, I think there’s a Healer outside, waiting to be admitted in. We’ll be going now.”

Hunter gives them a slight bow. “Head Auror Potter, expect to hear from us in a week or two.” He takes out his wand and cancels the wards with a small flick. They open the door and walk out. After a second or two, Blaise Zabini walks in, wearing the accustomed white robes for the Head Healer.

 _Of course it’s gonna be Blaise Zabini who’ll take Draco’s case_ , Harry thinks, ignoring the flash of annoyance he feels. Right now, the past does not matter. He feels Albus clutch his arm and lean against him, and Harry steels himself. What matters right now is Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's getting confused. And what do you think is up with Blaise Zabini? Is Draco okay? Sorry for the cliffhanger, but I'll update sometime this week again!


	7. [Relative] Calm Before a Storm

The calm that Blaise Zabini has been projecting while treating Draco Malfoy-Potter for the past thirty minutes have finally collapsed. He asks his Junior Healers to leave him, assuring them that he’ll wrap up with the final diagnostic and Stasis spells. When he hears the click of the door, he slumps on the bed at Draco’s feet and caresses the pale feet. Though he knows that Draco will never let him near him within a ten-yard stick, he indulges himself.

“I want to kill him, you know. When I saw him apparate with you, I knew then,” Blaise whispers, reveling in the smoothness and softness. “I always knew he’ll put you in danger. Look at what happened now, Dray.”

He, along with his team of Healers, has prevented liquid Nitrogen from spreading through Draco’s bloodstream. They’ve also siphoned any traces of it from his blood. Blaise cannot have been more grateful that one of the Healers present is trained in Muggle poisons and chemicals. One look at the dropping temperature and weakening pulse of the pureblood has been enough to suspect what the blade that stabbed him has been dipped with.

Blaise has almost lost him.

Still, though, Draco will not wake up. His temperature is gradually returning to normal, his wound is healed, and his pulse is back to normal. He hasn’t responded to any of his Revival Spells, to his dismay. Selfishly, he admits that he wants to be the first one Draco sees when he awakens. Blaise wants to tell him that _he’s his hero_ , not bloody Potter, the Man Who Lived to Steal the Best for Himself.

“I told you, Dray, that you’re too good for Potter,” he whispers, devouring with his eyes the pale and delicate features of Draco’s face, the one he’s been accustomed with since he is child. The sleek, pale blonde hair fans around his face on the white pillowcase, his lashes are so thick and long they almost touch and cast shadows on his cheeks, and his perfectly-curved lips are slightly parted in sleep. They are the lips that Blaise has never tasted, and he still shamelessly dreams about during hours of whiskey or wine.

Draco has always been ashamed of his effeminate features and somehow tried to make up for it in school by acting brash and arrogant. He’s perpetually worn a smirk or a sneer in the Hogwarts corridors to assert his superiority. Blaise has watched the patrician different masks for half his life: from the arrogant sneer in their early years at Hogwarts, to the dull emptiness upon the Dark Lord’s arrival and after the war, and, finally, the contentment that makes Draco’s features look softer. It is the moment that Blaise has _truly_ fallen for his childhood friend, the Draco Malfoy without the mask, the one whose expression just hints at the withheld giddiness and joy.

It’s just a pity that Potter is one of the few people and things that have coaxed Draco into such a state.

“Look what it cost you, though,” Blaise says, daring to run a fingertip down the side of Draco’s smooth face. He knows how insecure his former schoolmate has been during school for having no facial hair, for being smooth as a girl. Draco has been very insecure about many things concerning himself. There’s been a day, though, almost two years after the war, that Draco suddenly isn’t.

It’s because that it’s finally come out that Harry bloody Potter has been courting Draco Malfoy, ex Death Eater, for eight months, and Draco has fallen in love for the hero. The next thing that Blaise knows, the hero has proposed and they’re getting married, building a new home in Godric’s Hollow and having kids.

When the Malfoy-Potter twins have been kidnapped, Blaise has had enough. While Potter has been off into the world in search of their sons, Blaise has dropped by Potter Chateau, where Draco is alone to ask his best friend to run away with him.

_“Draco, you deserve better than this. You know that, right?” he pleads, taking Draco’s pale hands in both of his. He’s kneeling on the rug in front of a distressed blonde. The latter looks awful; he’s thin—almost skin and bones—there are dark shadows under his eyes, and there are tear tracks on his cheeks._

_“Blaise, what are you talking about?” Draco asks, trying to escape from the grip around his knuckles._

_“Run away with me to America,” he says in a breath, pressing his lips against the pale hands, something he’s wanted to do for a very long tim. “Potter has brought you nothing but grief and pain, Draco. He’ll continue doing so because of who he is—and you deserve so much better. We can go start over—“_

_Draco struggles on his feet, glaring down at Blaise like nothing has ever disgusted more him before. “Start over? What are you on about, Zabini? You think I can leave my_ sons _and_ husband _because of a moment’s weakness? And with you?” he sneers the last sentence. Draco has never looked so beautiful and intimidating in his eyes, in his pale white night gown and his features illuminated by the fire. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, Blaise. Please go home and leave me alone.”_

 _He struggles back to his feet. He perfectly knows that he is not drunk in alcohol, but something else entirely. It’s something purely Draco’s, but he does not tell him that. He just_ wants _, and oh god, he_ wants _so fucking much that it’s unbearable. “Draco, I’m here to save you.”_

_Eyes that remind him of steel because of the color and coldness they exude fix on him. “Save me? From what? I don’t need saving, Blaise; my sons do, and you dare think I’ll leave them? I’m fucking married, Blaise. Doesn’t that tell you anything about how I love my family? And you want me to ruin that? Please. Just leave.”_

_Blaise, despite wanting Draco’s happiness, cannot see him have it, if not with him. He uses one of the weapons he knows will hurt his friend the most. “You think Potter will love you forever, Draco? Do you think he understands what you’ve gone through as much as I’ll ever do? Does he know about the emotional baggage you’ve brought into your marriage? Is he willing to carry them with you?” he sneers. “Are you really sure that Potter will not leave you when a more deserving, loving, and beautiful witch comes and gets his attention?”_

_A shadow falls on Draco’s face. Blaise almost smirks; it means that the blonde is thinking about his words. “What… What matters is that Harry loves me now. He knows about me and I’ve told him. We’ve told each other things, and he’s never changed his mind about me. No… not once…”_

_Blaise doesn’t say anything, because he knows that it will drive Draco crazy. The blonde is trying to convince himself as much as he convinces Blaise._

_“Harry loves me, Blaise. I don’t know if it will be forever, but I’ll love him. Always. And I’m proud of it,” Draco says firmly, looking at him in the eye. “I won’t leave him just because of all the mess our family is in.” A lone tear slides on his pale cheek, but Draco Malfoy stands straight and proud. “I’m not leaving, Zabini. I’m going to wait for my husband and sons to come back.”_

Blaise stands up from his perch on Draco’s bed, looking at his the object of his amour. He’s had flings, yes, but he’s always made sure to make himself available. In the back of his mind, Harry Potter’s small Gryffindor brain is too fickle. He’s still looking out for the day that he’ll leave Draco. Today’s morning paper has spurred his hope. When the day comes when Potter leaves Draco for the Weaslette, he wants to be ready.

After performing the necessary spells, he leaves the room to inform the Malfoy-Potters of the situation. He’s never been fond of Potter’s spawn, especially when he’s found that none of them exclusively looks like Draco. It’s just so like Potter to make sure he’s staked his claim on all his children. Still, one of his jobs as a Healer—and Draco’s Healer, in this case— is to let the family know about the patient.

When he approaches the adjoining waiting room, the door opens and a pair of teenagers comes out. Blaise has never seen them before, but apart from noticing their stoic expressions and the suspicious look the girl has given him, he ignores them. He waits for them to reach a considerable distance before stepping inside the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Upon the sight of him, Potter’s jaw clenches, and Blaise is overcome with the desire to smile smugly. It’s all good; Potter recognizes competition. He doubts that Draco’s told him about what has happened in their sitting room nine years ago. Still, he can’t discount the Head Auror noticing his interest in his husband, whether Draco is still wanted or not.

“Head Auror Potter,” he drawls, also taking in the complete presence of the Potter spawn in the room. The youngest one is sleeping on the couch; his arms are wrapped a stuffed dragon and a stuffed lion. The older ones, however, look apprehensive, eager to hear about their father.

“Healer Zabini,” replies Potter seriously. “How’s my husband?”

“Yeah, how’s Papa?” the blonde—the Gryffindor—asks, stepping closer.

“Our Healers have detected liquid nitrogen in Mr. Malfoy-Potter’s bloodstream,” Blaise says, the address to Draco tasting sour in his tongue. “It’s the cause of the extreme drop in his temperature and the weakening of his heart. We’ve siphoned all of that, and his vitals are back to normal. He is still under Stasis and will not awaken until tomorrow. He can’t be disturbed now.”

There’s no use for Blaise to let the family know that Draco is possibly just resting and is fine enough for visitors. There’s no way that he’ll share the blonde to these people when he can easily drive them away. Potter seems about to protest but Blaise talks over him. The Head Auror has become taller than him in the years, but he’s one of the Senior Healers here. He can’t be intimidated in _his_ territory.

“It is imperative that nothing and nobody disturbs Mr. Malfoy-Potter’s recovery, Head Auror Potter. I suggest that you go back and let your children rest now. Then you can come back tomorrow,” he says smoothly. “Of course, if there are developments, or if he wakes up and asks for you, we will notify you _right away._ ” _You wish,_ he adds in his mind.

Potter glances worriedly at the young blonde sleeping on the couch, but Blaise finds he cannot care less. There are things that should have been him that Potter has taken away from; he’ll never tolerate such.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, alright,” he says. “I’ll bring the boys home, but I’ll be staying the night in this room. I don’t care; I want to be close to my husband, _Healer_ Zabini.” Potter uses the voice he must use when barking commands as a Head Auror. It’s quiet, but intimidating, and Blaise loses the nerve to even contradict the powerful man. “And will it be trouble if my sons can have a glance at their Papa?”

Blaise grits his teeth. The use of the endearment to refer to Draco can’t be anything but a jest towards him. He nods once. “Just a glance,” he forces out and leads the way. They leave the waiting room, and he spells open the door of Draco’s room.

The Slytherin son, the one they’ve named after the Headmaster, is carrying his sleeping brother and approaches Draco’s bedside. His two other brothers stand beside him and they all place their hands on Draco’s arm.

“Lil… Lil, time to say goodnight to Papa for now,” the Slytherin tenderly whispers to his brother. The young blonde blearily opens his eyes and Blaise realizes with a pang that one of his eyes are Draco’s exact silver, while the other is Potter’s emerald green. It’s the first time he’s seen the youngest Malfoy-Potter; there have been rumors when he’s come back to Britain that Potter and Draco has formed a soul bound, but he can’t find it himself to believe it.

He knows, though, that magic couldn’t have allowed such unique features on the youngest child if it hasn’t been for a soul bond.

The young blonde stretches down carefully from his brother’s arms so he can embrace Draco’s upper arm. A small cheek rubs against Draco’s smooth one and Blaise hears the small whisper: “Papa, I promise to take care of myself until you get back. I’ll be good to Jamie, and Al, and Score while you’re here and Daddy is at work, and I’ll eat my veggies even without a prize.” There’s a small sniff. “’M gonna wait for you, Papa.”

Blaise aches because he’ll never know how Draco is as a parent. Right now, he can’t deny the blonde he loves is _loved_. It makes him feel bitter.

“Healer?”

He looks up and meets the eyes of a young child. There is so much hope in those eyes. “Can I leave Hydra and Leo with Papa? I promise they’ll be on their best bey-vior and they’ll help you protect Papa from bad things. Please?” he says all the words in one breath, that his brothers try to their hide their smile under their hands.

Blaise just gives him one stiff nod in reply, before turning around and leaving the room. The door slams behind him, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

+

“Cal, you didn’t really give the Head Auror a choice about this, huh?” Hunter asks, as they prepare to disapparate from St. Mungo’s lobby. His friend has looked very pensive ever since they’ve left the Malfoy-Potters. “And you told Albus that Crux is not involved in this. You know that’s anything but true.”

Cal just arches an eyebrow at him, looking impatient. Hunter shrugs, knowing that she’ll answer his question later. She clutches him by the elbow tightly, and Hunter feels the uncomfortable sensation of being squeezed and pinched to fit into _something_. Apparition has never been comfortable for him, but since he has a theory in connecting the phenomena with Einstein’s wormholes, he’ll have to get used to it.

His feet touch the wooden floors of Draco Malfoy-Potter’s apothecary. It’s already in its normal spic-and-span condition, though, he thinks regretfully, the spilled potions have been vanished. They have cleaned up as much as they could before the Head Auror’s sons have appeared and bound them with ropes.

 _Well, at least, the Muggles and Aurors are still here,_ he thinks, prodding one of the Muggles on the side. There are seven of them; eight, if one includes the little girl who stabbed Draco Malfoy-Potter. The men do not look like they can’t be more than mid-thirties; from what Hunter can deduce, they are all lean-muscled, but swift and strong, no doubt.  All of them are wearing _shades_ and black suits.

Hunter snorts. He’s never expected that Muggles will be so typical.

Beside them is a pile of invisibility cloaks they have used for the attack. He pulls from his pocket a pouch with an Undetectable Extendable Charm, and levitates the pile of invisibility cloaks inside it. He does the same with the guns and phones they’ve found with the Muggles. Really, Hunter finds himself wondering how on earth a non-magical community discovered about magic, and how they’ve advanced their technology so as to duplicate what wizards and witches can do.

They have found nothing in the Muggle documents and records they have hacked at Intercept. Cal has been so frustrated at finding how the Muggle criminal organizations have discovered magic that she’s also dispatched Polyjuiced and Glamoured Shadows to join different mafias and feed data to the Intercept. Though these operations have yielded valuable data about the Muggle networks and standard operating procedures, they’ve found nothing that can point out how everything started.

“I don’t think they really wanted to cause harm today,” Cal whispers from the other end of the room. Hunter seals the pouch and turns around to see the Clandestine kneeling beside the unconscious little girl. He goes to her.

“What do you mean? They’ve stabbed Draco, right?” he asks, puzzled. He sits on a couch where he can easily see his friend examine the girl. The latter was small and slim, but Hunter can remember how easily she has slipped from his grip to run towards Draco Malfoy-Potter. The girl has placed Albus in an arm lock and plunged the long dagger on her target’s side. It all happened so quickly.

“That little girl was trained,” he says.

“I’d thought so,” Cal replies. She pushes the tip of her wand against the girl’s temple, and mutters something. Hunter watches as a long, shimmering silver strand comes out when the wand is pulled out.

“Your sense of ethics really, really pales in comparison to Harry Potter’s, Cal,” he jokes. He does know, at the back of his mind, before he goes to sleep, that what they do at the Intercept will not be considered ethical by many. It niggles at him sometimes, but he knows that there’s no other way to outsmart the Muggles and their technology. When the Project is completed, though, and the bugs have been removed, all these things will be worth it.

“These are just copies of her memories. She won’t know any better once she wakes up,” Cal replies, though she knows that Hunter is aware. She conjures a floating, electric blue sphere with her hand and carefully transfers the silver strand on it. Once she’s finished, the sphere disappears. When they return to the Clandestine’s Lair in Intercept later, it will be waiting in Cal’s desk. “I’ll just look through them, and then destroy them. I promise.”

Hunter smiles as Cal gently brushes the girl’s mousy brown hair from her heart-shaped face.

“Anyway, I don’t think they were really serious about this attack. I think… I think they’re mapping the landscape. This is the first blatant attack they’ve staged in Britain, right? And now that everything’s done, you can see that the plan has been clumsy. No back-ups, no contingency plans. You can even say that these people are sacrifices.”

“Like pawns in the opening of a chess game.”

“Exactly,” Cal replies softly. She’s been sitting on the floor, her eyes glued on the Stunned girl’s face. She almost looks asleep. Cal looks up at him and her eyes are unfocused and blank. Hunter quickly sets up their privacy and coding wards. A silver blue sphere appears to record whatever it is that Cal will be saying.

Cal visibly gulps as she pulls out a long silver dagger from her own pouch. She says, “Hunter, they used liquid nitrogen on Draco Malfoy-Potter, do you know that? It’s poisonous, yes, but it doesn’t bring instant death. This girl was also carrying a bunch of flowers. They were heavily, very heavily, infused with the essence of Oleander. That’s why Draco was feeling very queasy even before he’s gotten out of the lab and gotten hurt. Using too much should have killed him, but they only used too little—inadequate to really incapacitate him. _Why is that?_ It’s too pathetic an attempt to kidnap the husband of the most powerful wizard in the world, don’t you think?

“And invisibility cloaks. And guns. Their men were wearing invisibility cloaks. I’ve checked the material, Hunter. I’ve _checked_ and it’s the skin of an Erumpent Horn. It’s impossible for Muggles to have developed gadgets that enable invisibility that quickly. How the _hell_ were they able to get their hands on those? There’s nothing about hunting magical creatures in the data we’ve gathered for the last four years. Just how much do these Muggles know about _us_ , Hunter?”

Cal sounds more and more distressed as she asks one question after another. Hunter lets her, because this is how they work. In Intercept, asking questions is a gift and paranoia is given attention to, not something they scorn at. A large portion of their most daring research breakthroughs have started with asking inane questions and trying to prove vague connections.

“What if this is just another way of getting information about us? About Harry Potter? Their interests in Britain are focused solely on him. So why _just_ stab Draco Malfoy-Potter? A warning? Maybe. But they weren’t really planning on kidnapping Draco, weren’t they? They wouldn’t have sent this girl alone inside. They just wanted to hurt him, it seems. They also had no idea we’ll be intercepting them today. Still… something’s missing, Hunter. I can’t help but feel that there should be something more behind this.”

“Cal, we might be reading too much into this, you know?” Hunter gently interrupts her ‘theorizing.’ “Why don’t we start, for now, with what we have and _can_ examine? Like how they got their invisibility cloaks? And study their clothes and weapons? And before that, let’s go back to the Lair with these people.”

Cal nods and stands up. She conjures several stretchers with her wand and makes them float, waiting for the bodies they need to carry. Hunter looks at the two unconscious Aurors at the corner of the room. “What do we do with them?”

The Clandestine looks at them and her face flashes impatience and vexation once more. “I don’t know. I say we let Head Auror Potter take care of them. Put them under a time-bound Dream Spell; key in Head Auror Potter’s magical signature we got a while ago so the spell will break with his presence. Let’s just send him a note about what we want him to do.”

Hunter smiles fondly at his friend and gets to work. He knows that Cal has been greatly affected by her interaction with Harry Potter; she understands what it feels like to be responsible over men whose job depends on one’s leadership, after all.

“And,” Cal says quietly as she transfers the unconscious Muggles on the stretcher, “I do hope he joins us, you know? Head Auror Potter. He’ll be great in the Council. I mean, for balance and all that.” She clears her throat and says loudly, “I told Albus that Crux isn’t part of any of this. _You’ll_ have to explain to Crux, Hunter, that his _amour_ shouldn’t know _any_ of his involvement on the Project. It’s gonna ruin his mission.”

“He’ll kill you, you know,” Hunter says, smirking and nudging her playfully at the elbow. “You’ve ruined his chances to the gentle brunet with that lie.”

Cal shrugs and just says, “We’ll see.”

+

When Draco wakes up, the first thing he feels are the rough and thin sheets that cover him from the chest down. His nose crinkles in distaste, wondering what he’s doing in a small room with whitewashed walls, boring paintings of fruit bowls, and smell of antiseptic. He gets up, but the sudden flare of pain in on his side. He feels stiff and cold, as if his blood has been saturated with mint.

“I would relax if I were you,” a familiar voice chuckles. Draco’s head snaps to the side, and he sees Blaise Zabini sitting in a chair beside his bed. His posture is lazy and relaxed; his fingers are delicately holding a flute of what seems like champagne.

Draco suddenly remembers what has happened earlier that day. The article about Harry and Ginny Weasley, his sudden insecurity and discomfort, the explosion in Diagon Alley, and Albus fighting someone before he felt something plunge deep, cruel, and cold against his side. Heart slamming in his chest and feeling cold that has nothing to do with the wind, he looks around for a sign of his family.

“Albus,” he whispers. He glares at Blaise, who smirks. “My son. Is my son alright, Blaise?”

The Italian nods, his gaze hungrily sweeping over Draco. The latter is aware of this, of course, subjected to it since they’ve hit puberty, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less uncomfortable. He doesn’t show this, though. It’s been seven years since he’s been in the same room as his former housemate, and Draco will be damned if he’s going to show any weakness.

Injured or not.

“You’ve been stabbed by a silver dagger infused with liquid nitrogen, you know,” says Blaise, perching near the top of the bed, near his head, looking down at him. “You could have died if Potter hadn’t brought you here. Your husband’s fast; I’ll give him that. Anyway, he brought your sons home.”

Harry. Draco vaguely remembers Albus saying something about Harry being involved in what was happening in Diagon Alley. “Is he fine?”

Blaise snorts derisively. “Fine? Of course, the Golden Boy is fine, while you’re here in your sickbed. It’s always been like that for you, isn’t it?”

He frowns at that, but keeps himself from saying that it was Harry’s who’s been at his deathbed every year when they’re in school and the man has taken care of him since they’ve been together that Draco hasn’t visited the hospital since Percy was born. Blaise is prejudiced against Harry and Draco doesn’t want to rub the wound his former friend seems to still be feeling.

Right now, what he wants is to go back to Harry and their sons. He thinks his wand is with Harry, so he finds comfort in that his husband will not be leaving him in the small room alone for the entire night. Blaise starts speaking again.

“Your family is so close and _happy_ , by the way, that it makes me sick.”

He doesn’t know how to respond at that. He and Harry have sworn that the family they’ll build will not be mere copies of the ones they’ve grown up in. When they’ve had Jamie, they were scared parents who only wanted the best for their child. Harry had, in Draco’s amusement, read books parenting, child care, and child development during all his free time, both in the office and at their home.

Hearing Blaise say those words caused pleasure and warmth to flood in his chest, but he doesn’t comment on it. He knows that they’ve been said with spite and sarcasm, which also makes him feel protective over his sons. Merlin, he thinks it’s a little way past midnight, but he wants to go back to them.

“I feel alright now,” he says, giving Blaise a challenging stare. “I want to go home, Blaise.” His voice leaves no room for doubt or argument.

Still, though, Blaise, being Blaise, snorts at that. He tips his flute to his lips and takes a sip. He smacks his lips after, and leans closer to Draco’s face. The latter can feel the very hot breath and smell booze in it. It is sickening.

“Oh, but _Dray_ , I can keep you here as long as I want.” The drawl is anything but seductive. It is a drunken slur by a person whose miseries and bottles of alcohol have cut away all his inhibitions. Slytherin cunning and Zabini charm are now buried away, silent, under the hazy and light fog caused by inadvisable amount of booze. “I’m one of the Head Healers now,” he giggles.

Draco feels chills travelling down his spine. Blaise _can_ keep him here. Being one of the Head Healers, he has earned a certain amount of trust and respect. He can charm Draco to an eternal sleep or drug him sicker without anyone being any wiser. He grips the sheets tightly in his knuckles. Luckily, Blaise doesn’t notice, but keeps on talking.

“I could _do_ whatever I want with you,” Blaise whispers gleefully, and it sends Draco’s stomach roiling. _Where was Harry?_ “I can just tell stupid, arrogant Potter that his husband is too sick and fragile for visitors. I’ll tell them you condition is too contagious that even your children can’t _visit_ you.” Draco’s knuckles are turning paler than they normally as he grips the sheets to restrain himself.

Blaise’s voice drops into a reverent whisper. He kneels on the floor by Draco’s bed. “That way, I can also protect you from the world. No one will stab you and hurt you and make you waste your energies working like a slave in Potter’s family. You’re too beautiful and delicate for that. You deserve luxury. I’ll pleasure you. Make you happy.” His cold fingers try to cradle Draco’s face, but the latter flinches away from that.

Blaise chuckles at Draco’s reaction. He tenderly pries the pale hand gripping the sheets and presses his lips on the back of it. “I’ll keep you here and protect you, Dray. Potter never deserved you.”

 _He’s crazy. He’s gone crazy,_ Draco thinks, feeling the anger and fear throbbing in his chest. It’s all he can do but hold in the trembling, to drown out Blaise’s insane promises and squeeze his eyes shut.

“…worship you. I’ll _make love to you_ tenderly, Dray.”

Goosebumps blossomed in Draco’s arms and he shivers. He feels his magic crackle beneath his skin, and he thinks of Harry. He is suddenly aware of Blaise’s lips almost touching the shell of his ear. The man interprets his reaction as arousal, and laughs lowly.

“You like that, Dray, hmm?” he whispers. “I bet that that Potter isn’t good enough in bed, for you.”

“No,” Draco says and, to his horror, his voice trembles. He pushes Blaise away from him and sits up. “Get off of me, Blaise. _Get out._ ”

The man tries to climb into the bed with him, but Draco kicks him off. He feels powerless and confused, the way he’s done after the war, _before Harry_. Before Harry, it’s always been like this: people crowding into him, demanding, accusing, pointing, shouting, and inflicting pain. Before Harry came, Draco had no idea what to do with himself, what to fight for, and what to look forward to.

“I always like you with some bite,” Blaise laughs darkly, trying to crawl towards him again.

All those things are in the past, though. He and Harry have got each other now. Draco thinks of James, Scorpius, Albus, and Percy. Now, he’s got something to fight for, to look forward to, _to live for._

Blaise casts an _Incarcerous_ at him, and Draco feels thick, silver ropes bind him by the wrists. A voice inside his mind savagely says _No one must touch me._

 _Only Harry._ In his mind’s eye, eyes the color emerald, so green and kind and precious, smile lovingly at him.

Heart beating fast, cold sweat trickling down his back, Draco feels a force, strong and potent, burst from him. It feels like all his emotions have escaped; causing a burst of very bright, white light fills the room. He hears Blaise curse and he flies across the room.

Draco doesn’t know what have happened. Accidental bursts of magic haven’t occurred to him since he was seventeen. All he knows is the warmth, safety, and calm that suddenly bathes him as he stares at a shimmering sheet of magic shielding him from his former friend. Surprisingly, the buzzing warmth it causes in him reminds him of Harry’s fierce, wild, and encompassing magic when he wraps Draco in his arms whenever they’re making love, when the blonde is close to the edge. This revelation shocks him; he hasn’t even realized that his body remembered Harry’s magic during the nights they spent together until now that he has identified it.

“You,” he growls at Blaise, glaring at him with all his might. “You have no _right_ to touch me, Zabini. You have no right to _anything_ that involves _me_ in any way.”

Blaise’s eyes are still wide in wonder as they stare at the sheet that separate and have pushed him from Draco. He tentatively reaches out his hand, but the magic crackles and glimmers menacingly before he can even touch it.

“What’s this?” he whispers.

Draco doesn’t reply, because at that moment, the door slams open. Harry bursts into the room and the sheet of magic disappears.

+

Small lights blink in the panel and the screen about it shows different kinds of graphs and scatter maps. The lines and figures in the axes have come to life about half an hour ago, to the man’s pleasure. Now, he relishes in how they shift and move, always showing him positive signs of power and life.

The person manning the device, her fingers flying across a large sheet of buttons, looks up and asks him, “Maestro, shall I notify the others?”

The Maestro grips the back of the woman’s chair in an effort to contain his excitement. His lips are stretched over his lips in a gleeful, child-like smile as he shakes his head slightly. “Not yet, Agent Healey. In the meantime, just keep on monitoring our little love’s movements, hmm? Give it ten or twenty hours, then report back to me.”

The Agent nods, and keeps on typing codes and commands that will make the program behave the way the Maestro have instructed. He leaves the Agent to her task and moves out of the large operations room. As he boards an elevator, his grin still hasn’t left his face.

“To the future,” he mutters to himself. “The _very near_ future.”

The elevator halts at the topmost floor of the building and, after arranging his tie, steps out of it. He knows that there are still people he needs to talk to, but so far, all are going _his_ way.

+

When Harry feels his guts twist in anxiety and his thoughts shift to Draco, he doesn’t doubt about going to his supposedly unconscious husband. It’s midnight—the opening of another year—and he’s dealing with his Aurors, according to the note he’s received from Ashford’s daughter. He’s done with binding them in a wizard’s oath of secrecy that will apparate them and anyone with them to Harry the moment they’ve broken it. He is just about to firecall Kingsley—he knows that the Minister will be awake, having the customary New Year’s dinner with Andromeda—when he feels the desire to go to Draco.

It’s not that he’s not frequently overcome with strong desires to go to his husband whenever he’s away, but this is different. It is not longing; it’s urgent, demanding, and protective. Harry’s magic seems to crackle ominously beneath his skin, and he doesn’t doubt it. He needs to go to Draco.

Hermione has warned him about this when she’s been researching about Soul bonds a few years ago. All the books they’ve found mostly claimed it as a legend, having no occurrence in the last thousand years. Nevertheless, almost all the things happening to Draco and Harry back then—their being in tune with one another’s magic and emotions, the instinct to know what the other needs, and Percy’s conception—have pointed to them forming the Soul bond. Hermione have also said that a bond like this will cause Harry and Draco to feel when one is in serious trouble and state of helplessness.

Harry thinks that this is one of those cases. He orders one of his Aurors on duty to write a note to Kingsley about Harry dropping by that day, and leaves the department. Once he reaches the Atrium, he gives in to the pull of Disapparition from his magic.

He appears in the lobby of St. Mungo’s. Ignoring the call of his name from the receptionist and the stares he’s receiving from the lines of injured wizards and witches, he immediately makes his way towards Draco’s room.

When he arrives, the door is locked. He can also feel silencing charms put up. Worry and annoyance growing within him, Harry kicks the door with as much force as he can and the door gives way. He charges inside, and sees Blaise Zabini on his bum on the floor, his arm outstretched. Draco is sitting on his bed, hands tied with thick ropes and back flat on the wall. His blonde looks at him, eyes wide, face white as a sheet, and, when he speaks, he trembles. “Ha- _Harry…”_

“Draco, love,” he sighs, and walks towards the bed, flicking his wrist to vanish the ropes and pulling Draco, whose arms are already reaching towards him, to his chest. He briefly presses his lips against the top of his head before glaring at Zabini and pointing his wand towards him.

“Potter,” the Head Healer spits his name with as much venom as he can, but Harry cannot be intimidated nor arsed about it. Not when Zabini looks pathetic scrambling to his feet, obviously drunk. Not when Draco clutches at his robes so tightly. Harry’s eyes narrow, trying to reel in the violent and angry surge of desire to hurt Zabini.

“Zabini, what kind of Healer threatens his own patient?” he asks in a forced calm. His magic crackles beneath his skin eagerly; it will be so easy, muttering a curse that will put him in so much pain, but he controls himself as much as he can.

Zabini laughs out loud. “Threaten?” He is swaying on his feet. “Dray, was I threatening you? No, I wasn’t.” His dark chocolate-colored eyes narrow as they glare at Harry. “I was offering something better to Draco. I was giving him something that he actually deserves. Something a pureblood like him deserves. And guess what, Potter? It’s not the likes of _you._ ”

His hands are gesticulating widely as he speaks. “Draco doesn’t deserve someone who only exposes him and his family in _danger_.”

Harry winces slightly at the statement. He can’t deny it; there’s a shred of truth in what the Slytherin has said. Consequently, Harry feels Draco shake his head against his neck.

“You’re not the one for Draco, Potter. _I_ am,” Zabini declares smugly.

Harry grits his teeth. He flicks his wand, sending a very strong Silencing Charm on him. Then, he looks down on Draco, who’s breathing heavily against his chest. “I’ll take you away from here now, okay? We’ll apparate.”

“Yes, please. Yes, Merlin, yes,” Draco whispers shakily, pressing his lips on the side of his jaw.

Harry glares at Zabini, who is glaring back. “Don’t think you’ll get away from doing trying to attack my husband, Zabini,” he says. Then, with Harry does something he rarely does: his magic pierces through the wards of St. Mungo’s and he disapparates.

They appear in their room at Godric’s Hollow, and Harry gently pries Draco from himself so he can look at him more carefully. The blonde winces when Harry tries to hold him by the waist. With a pang, Harry remembers Draco’s wound. “Love, I’m sorry I forgot. How much does it hurt?”

“It’s fine. Zabini as good as well told me that I’m fine,” Draco mutters, sounding a little irritated at the overly-concerned look Harry gives him. He wraps his arms around his husband’s neck and hums. “It’s just sore. Don’t let me go, Harry.”

Harry chuckles and lifts Draco, wrapping his legs around his waist. “But I’m calling Penelope tomorrow so she can check on you, okay?” he says sternly, walking towards their bed. Despite the worry for Draco still lingering in Harry, he can’t help but feel giddy about him being home. He has gloomily accepted that he’ll be coming home to an empty bed. Now, though, Draco is home for him to ravish and to hold.

“Mmm, yes, Harry,” breathes Draco, snuggling closer to Harry and tightening his legs around his waist.

“Draco, you have to let go so I can put you to bed,” Harry sighs, awkwardly bent towards the bed with his knee braced against him for support. He doesn’t say it, but Draco is wrapped around him like a Koala. It’s cute, but Harry needs to lay him down. “Snugglebug,” he teases.

His husband grumbles something under his breath, and releases his grip on him. A small gasp escapes Draco’s lips when he realizes, “Harry, I’m still in my hospital clothes.” He giggles as he pulls the flimsy cotton slip off of his body, leaving him naked.

Harry, who has been removing his heavy Auror robes, shirt, and trousers from himself, looks down fondly and affectionately at his husband. He cannot bear to think that they could have lost Draco. He has known from the beginning that anyone he has let come close to him will always be under a target to his many enemies. That, however, doesn’t mean that he will not give his all just to protect Draco and their sons. Losing them is unthinkable.

After today, Harry knows that he’ll have to do the right thing for them.

“Come here,” he says softly, climbing on the bed and holding one of Draco’s light-colored sleeping gowns. The blonde sits up. Harry traces his fingers gently on the slightly pink skin in his side. It feels slightly cold. “I’m so sorry, Dray,” he whispers.

Hands gently cradle his face and force him to look up. Draco’s eyes are burning with determination and conviction as they look at Harry’s. Gently, he shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault, you stupid Gryffindork.” Harry smiles at that, and Draco returns it. “It’s not your fault that stupid Muggles want to kill you and stab me with daggers and Muggle chemicals. It’s not your fault that there are threats to our family out there. Don’t blame yourself, love; I can’t bear it.”

Harry nods. His throat feels tight; he doesn’t say anything as he helps Draco put on the night gown. Once they’ve lain down, he pulls Draco on himself and wraps his arms around him. He places small kisses on the side of the blonde head.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice sounds tentative.

“Yeah?”

“What are you thinking about?”

Unconsciously, his hold around Draco’s waist tightens. “I met some of Ashford’s men today. They helped you in Diagon Alley.” Aside from a small intake of breath, Draco offered no other reaction, so Harry continues. “One of them is Ashford’s daughter, but they’re both Al and Score’s ages. I can see myself in them, Dray. Fighting for something. I can’t say that I agree with how they operate, but still.

“I can’t help but think how we’re too entwined into this, love. What if their way is the only way to get out of these things? If those Muggles can do this to you, what else are they capable of doing in the future? I don’t know anything about them, love. I’m scared at what can happen; those kids—Hunter and Calliope—seems to know many things, but I cannot ask them, because, as Calliope pointed out, I’ve turned my back to their cause.”

Draco is quiet for a moment, and Harry begins to feel nervous at what he will say and think. After a couple of minutes, Draco speaks. “I don’t really think that Ashford’s lot consists of the kindest and most innocent people in the world. They’re more Slytherin than anything I’ve seen, to be honest. They’ll manipulate you and reduce you to a mere weapon, and I can’t bear that, Harry. You’ve already suffered so fucking much for the wizarding world.”

He sighs and braces himself on his elbows on Harry’s chest so he can stare directly into Harry. Their faces are curtained by Draco’s slightly long, sleek, blonde hair, and Harry’s gut clenches as he thinks _I almost lost this_. “I love you, Harry, and I care for you so much. Not only that, I trust you with my life, and I trust you with our son’s lives. You’re a good man, aside from being the most powerful wizard in this age. You’re strong, not just magically, but as a person. If…” He bites his lip for a moment then releases it. “If you think that you want to fight and join Ashford’s brood, I’ll stand by you.”

He lowers his head so he can press his lips against Harry’s and the latter groans and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. Harry tightens his hold on Draco and rolls them over, so he is above his precious blonde. “I can’t believe I fucking lost you,” he pants when they come up for breath. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses on the column of Draco’s throat. “I was fucking afraid, Draco. I wouldn’t know what to do without you. I cannot think about raising our sons alone. I can’t imagine how we’ll deal with the loss.”

Draco whines as he arches into him. “S-same. S-same, Harry. _Harry,_ I won’t know what I’d do without you, Harry. _Oh, Harry,”_ he gasps when Harry bears down his weight on him, pinning him down on the bed. Harry takes advantage of the open lips and proceeds to devouring his mouth once more.

 _I love you, I love you, I need you, I’ll always want you_ , Harry feels his blood singing for Draco as they grind against each other. He is overwhelmed with the desire to claim him, love him, and feel him to his bones, as deeply as possible.

“Tell me…” Harry says in between the small bites and marks he inflicts on Draco’s shoulders, collarbones, and chest. “Tell me… that we’ll… always have… _this._ Tell me… that I’ll always… have you…”

Draco momentarily tightens his grip on his hair as he says _yes_ again and again between quickened breaths. Then, those hands started mapping the muscles on Harry’s back, neck, chest, and thighs. Harry thinks that he’ll never be able to get over Draco, how much he needs him, and the strength of his _want_ for him.

Today, they almost lost each other. Today, there has been the possibility that Harry would not be spending the first hours of another year like this: Draco, responsive, beautiful, and very much alive, beneath Harry, tasting, kissing, and holding him. He revels in each sound that escapes Draco’s soft lips.

Draco cries out when Harry bites on the sensitive skin behind his ear fiercely. “Potter, _please_ just get on with it before there’s nothing left of me before the sun rises.”

Harry playfully pulls on the shell of Draco’s ear playfully with his teeth before kissing him on the mouth tenderly. They’re both panting now, their breaths filling the room. They don’t care, though. “Take me, Harry,” breathes Draco, his eyes already dark with need. Desire.

Harry buries his face on Draco’s neck and breathes him in. With a thought, he unclothes both of them. The blonde squirms deliciously against him, enjoying how their skin touches each other. Harry kneels between his legs and lifts them. His tongue slips out of his lips and drags on the arch of one pale feet. Draco almost sobs; his feet have always been deliciously sensitive.

“I’ll make love to you,” Harry promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and it ends there. I've upped the rating of the fic because of that scene, but I don't think I'll go to more detailed smut. I've never written it, and haven't read a lot of it, so... yeah. I just hope that scene was okay.
> 
> In another note, I think I'll be able to update only once a week for now. College and producing a radio program have been keeping me very, very busy these days. I hardly had time to proofread this. I apologize for the mistakes.
> 
> I'd like to hear whatcha think about this chapter, please? 
> 
> Thank you for all who are following and liking this! So much. :)


	8. Moving On

**CHAPTER EIGHT: Moving On**

On the morning of New Year, Percy has to take a few minutes crying on Leo’s furry, yellow body after remembering that his Papa is sick and at St. Mungo’s right now. He’s left Hydra on his Papa’s bed, so he won’t be alone. He’s a little jealous of the stuffed dragon right now, though; he wants to be able to see his Papa.

“Leo, I want to see Papa,” he mumbles to his stuffed creature. Fat drops of tears clung to his long, blonde lashes, as he clutched his lion to himself wistfully. New Year’s morning used to be fun. He knows that last year, his Papa and Daddy cooked breakfast last year and all of them watched Muggle movies and he watched Papa and Daddy play Quidditch with Al, Score, and Jamie. Teddy has been there too to even out the teams. Percy doesn’t remember all of it, but he can vividly hear in his mind how rich Papa’s laughter was when he and Daddy danced to old songs in the living room after dinner.

He knows that they’re not going to have that today. Percy knows that he can’t ask for it from his Daddy, who is clearly upset about Papa being sick.  Besides, things are not the same without Papa. Nothing is.

“The Healer said we can visit Papa, today, Leo,” Percy tells his lion. Big, golden eyes stares back at him, and Percy pushes at them playfully. “I hope he’s okay now, right? So that we’ll all be happy again. The house seems so sad and quiet since yesterday, Leo. It makes me want to cry because I don’t think there’s an’thing I can do to make it better.”

He sniffs and clumsily uses his knuckles to wipe the tears that slide down his flushed cheeks. Being four years old, Percy isn’t used to this kind of atmosphere in their family. He knows that they’ve had problems sometimes, but he’s never experienced having one of his fathers and brothers being so sick as to stay in St. Mungo’s. This morning, Percy experiences for the first time a total cluelessness on what to do.

He remembers Christmas morning, and thinks there _is_ something special he can do for everyone at least. “Leo!” he exclaims, hugging the lion close to him and jumping up and down his bed in excitement. “There is something I can do! I can prepare breakfast for Daddy, Score, Al, and Jamie! Then we can eat it with Papa, right? At the hospital!”

When he has jumped to his heart’s content, he climbs off the bed, no longer bothering to wash his face or brush his teeth. He runs out of his room with Leo tucked under his arm, and pads downstairs into the kitchen. It’s still very early, Percy notes, so it’s a good thing that his little feet do not make any sound on the thick carpet.

He navigates through the living room and the dining room; when he enters the kitchen, Percy’s chest suddenly full and tight. What he sees makes him burst into loud sobs.

+

Draco wakes up in their bed feeling very giddy and sated, indeed. _Shagged to my heart’s content,_ his mind hums; he stretches his body a little to feel Harry’s pressed and wrapped around him. He has the strong temptation to giggle like a schoolgirl, but he’s still a Malfoy, so he doesn’t. However, that does not stop him from burying his face in Harry’s bare chest and inhaling his husband’s scent.

He means what he told Harry last night. He’ll stand by Harry’s decision regarding what it will take to remove their family from the Muggle mess. If it means Harry joining Ashford’s organization, then so be it. He’s still very, very uncomfortable about his husband being subjected to the Americans’ manipulations and schemes; Draco will have to make sure that he uses the skills he’s perfected as a Malfoy and a Slytherin to keep Harry from being a reduced into Ashford’s puppet.

There is still the question of how they’ll explain all this to their sons, but he and Harry can do it. They’ll take it by stride. Harry’s no longer the reckless, impulsive Gryffindor from their school days. No matter how sexy Harry looks when he’s charging through the battle, Draco has made sure that, as much as possible, his lover wouldn’t do so without careful consideration and planning.

“How do you manage to be so adorable and sexy at the same time when you’re clinging to me like that?” Harry’s sleep-roughened voice rumbled above him. Strong arms pulled him up on Harry’s torso and lips are pressed against his.

“Good morning, love,” Draco breathes, grinning at the handsome face beneath him. Harry’s black hair fans on their royal blue pillow and his lips are stretched in a wide smile. His eyes are sparkling as they look at Draco. This seems to be one of the Slytherin’s more sentimental mornings because he thinks for a moment—and does not regret it—that Harry looks as strong and handsome like a king.

“Happy New Year, hmm?” Harry chuckles and presses more kisses all over his face. Large hands stroke his back. As much as Draco will love a repeat of what they’ve done the night before, he pushes himself off of Harry and sits up. He’s still naked and he feels Harry’s eyes glued on him. He doesn’t need to look to see his lips in a slight pout.

“Love, we need to make the traditional big breakfast. It’s New Year, yeah?” Draco says, standing up and walking to their walk-in closet. He searches through the racks of jumpers in there, listening to Harry getting up from the bed too. A small sound of triumph escapes his lips when he finds a soft and thick evergreen sweater. A pair of arms slithers around his waist and he’s being pulled against a strong body.

“I really don’t get why you like wearing my clothes during the first day of the year. I like it, though,” Harry says, his fingers stroking Draco’s flat stomach. “You’re swimming in them, sweetheart.”

Draco ignores the blush brought on his cheeks by the endearment. “I know. It’s just… _I told you, Harry_.” He squirms uncomfortably in Harry’s arms, and whispers, “It reminds me of our first date. I like remembering that every start of New Year.”

Harry nibbles at the shell of his ear, before whispering, “I like it.” Draco feels Harry’s grin when his cheeks move against his head.

“I like to please.” Draco steps from the circle of Harry’s arms to put the large, soft sweater on slowly, making a show out of it. He restrains himself from smiling like an idiot at the how comfy wearing Harry’s large sweater is. It’s so long that it covers the upper third of his thighs, and the sleeves have to be rolled so he can use his hands. It feels like home.

“You’re doing it so well,” Harry purrs, spreading his palms on Draco’s flat stomach once more and pulls him against him again, but Draco slaps his arms away.

“Get dressed, Harry. We have a big New Year’s breakfast to make,” he chides, already running a list of everything he wants to prepare. He thinks it’s still five-thirty in the morning, which is good. His boys are early risers; they’ll never sleep beyond seven-thirty.

Harry chuckles behind him and hums a tune while putting on a pair of black of trousers and a dark red Weasley jumper. Draco doesn’t comment on the latter; the Weasley matriarch’s selection of colors and wool has become tolerable. He does, however, raise his eyebrows at the work trousers. “You’re leaving today? Work?”

“Yeah. I won’t be too long. I need to meet with Kingsley about what happened yesterday, file a complaint at St. Mungo’s, and call Penelope to check you up,” Harry answers, taking his hand and leading him out of their closet and into the en suite so they can brush their teeth. It’s sweet, Draco thinks as Harry leads him out of their room after, how Harry still insists in holding hands even if they’re already married, with kids, and inside their own house. “I also invited Ron, Lav, and his children tonight for dinner.”

“Hmm,” Draco hums under his breath. Harry pauses in the hallway, and looks at him with a small smile. He doesn’t comment on how the Golden Trio dynamic has changed after the divorce, but is still concerned on how it stresses and pressures Harry sometimes. This has never escaped his Gryffindor husband’s notice.

“We can invite Hermione sometime before the boys return to work and Hogwarts next week,” he says, pressing his lips against Draco’s forehead. “I haven’t spent some time with Ron, you know? I don’t want my best mate thinking that he still has some sort of family here. Even if what he did to Mione was wrong.”

“Very wrong,” mutters Draco, nodding and suddenly remembering his breakdown yesterday after reading the Prophet article. Infidelity has always been a touchy subject for him. Draco knows that if Harry does it to him, his insecurities will put the blame on _him—_ his past, his marks, hell, even how insecure and tiring he must be.

“Hey,” Harry says softly, drawing him into his arms again, concern written all over his face. He cradles Draco’s face in his hands and gently coaxes him to look up. With as much emotion and intensity he can muster, he says, “We still have to talk about the Daily Prophet article, and many other things, but Draco, I love you. Ginny Weasley, even if she’s Ron’s sister, cannot even hold a candle to you in my eyes. Damn, everything is darkness apart from you.”

Harry bows down to coax with his own mouth Draco’s bottom lip from between his teeth. They kiss, and the blonde feels himself pinned gently against the wall outside their room.

“You don’t know… how worried… I was… yesterday… when I called… and Score… told me… what happened,” Harry whispers between their kisses. He grabs Draco’s thighs and lifts him up. The latter hooks his legs around his waist immediately.

Draco groans when Harry started biting, sucking, and marking his neck again. “I- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do that again, okay? Whenever you’re feeling insecure, just talk to me. When people do not stop pestering you, tell me and we’ll face them together,” Harry whispers hotly against his neck, then proceeds to give Draco another deep kiss. “I will never stand by and let the wizarding world step on and hurt my family, especially my husband.”

Draco gives him a faint smile, heart still hammering intensely from their snogging session and Harry’s declaration. He wants to cry and bang his head on the wall for his silly thoughts, but Harry always tells him they’re not silly. If anything, he wants Draco to talk to him about them, and he’ll disprove them. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Anything for you, my love.” Harry sweetly kisses him on the forehead, making Draco’s stomach feel fluttery with butterflies. He is gently put down and drawn to the side of a strong body. “Let’s prepare a big and healthy breakfast for a horde of hungry and growing boys.”

When they reach the kitchen, they fall into routine. Harry retrieves the sausages, bacon, and eggs from their refrigerator, and summons with his hand the frying pans from the cabinets above them. They land on their eight-burner stove gracefully. Draco watches him for a while before summoning vegetables, fruit, cream, flour, sugar, cheese, and other sweet things that his boys like in the morning. He sets the pot of coffee to start brewing.

There’s a crack behind them and three voices say, “Good morning and happy new year, Masters Harry and Draco.”

Draco smiles as he returns the greeting to Kreacher, Dobby, and Winky. After the war, the three elves have expressed the desire to serve Harry for the rest of their lives, to Hermione’s consternation. Harry has agreed, in one condition: they have to take day-offs on Sundays, given proper rooms in the chateau’s basement, and let Harry buy things for them when they refused gold. The elves have agreed, and they’ve become part of the family.

He will never admit loudly that he thinks it’s adorable how Kreacher has made his room a museum of sorts of Black family pictures and heirlooms, and more pictures of their boys when they were growing up. Winky has turned hers into an art studio and library; Harry always gives her art supplies. Dobby, on the other hand, turned his room into a sewing room with the Muggle sewing machine and cloths that Harry bought for him.

“It’s a pleasure to see Master Draco well and unharmed,” Kreacher croaks with a bow towards Draco.

“Littlest Master Percy be crying in his room last night for Draco,” squeaks Winky worriedly, pulling her frilly apron around her anxiously. “Master Draco is fully well now?”

“Yes, Winky. He’ll be having another check-up sometime today, but he’s already well,” Harry says from his frying from the other end of the kitchen. He looks over his shoulder and throws a smile to their friends. “Thank you for your concern.”

Winky just nods, her large ears flapping, and eagerly asks, “Will Masters Harry and Draco be needing Winky for an errand today?”

Draco hopes that one day, some Muggleborns will understand that serving and being part of families actually made the elves _happy_. “Thank you, Winky. I need you to get a few other ingredients for me in Diagon Alley for the turkey, cheesecake and treacle tart we’ll be having tonight. Also, can you drop by Ron Weasley’s flat in Diagon Alley and remind him of our invitation for tonight.”

“Yes, Master Draco! Winky be doing that!” After a toothy grin, Winky disappears.

“Kreacher be preparing the young masters’ robes for tonight, Master Draco,” Kreacher says with a bow. “Kreacher be choosing only the best for the young heirs of the House of Black.”

Draco ignores how Harry’s breath hitches with restrained laughter. He gently touches the old elf’s shoulder dressed in a clean and pressed pillow case. “Okay, Kreacher. But make sure you present to me your work first.” He knows that Harry remembers how the boys looked like, dressed with frills and old women’s lace that were in fashion centuries ago.

“Of course, Master Draco, of course,” Kreacher croaks and disappears.

Draco turns and, now that he’s paying attention to Dobby over the vegetables he’s been chopping, sees that the elf is wiping fat tears leaking from his big eyes. “Dobby, what’s the matter?”

The elf hiccups and says, “Dobby is h-happy that Master Draco is well f-fully, Master Draco. Master Draco has been a g-good father to the Malfoy-Potter family and a g-good Master to us elves. Dobby is happy that he’s w-well to keep Master Harry and the l-little masters happy and taken care of.” He wipes his bulbous nose with the hem of his self-sewn jumper.

“I’m happy, too, Dobby,” Draco says, smiling indulgently at the hiccupping house elf. They’ve been fond of each other once Draco has apologized to the elf for the treatment his family has inflicted in him in the past years. “Now, garden needs trimming and we need fresh flowers around the house. Can you help us with that?” He knows that asking the elf to do something will distract him from the swell of emotions.

Dobby’s big eyes are suddenly alight with eagerness. He bounces on the balls of his feet and does a salute, something that he’s seen from one of Percy’s Muggle movies. “I will gladly do that, Master Draco. Anything for the House of Malfoy-Potter!”

After he disappears with a crack, Harry says, “See? You’re an integral part of this family, love.”

Draco chuckles, but before he can reply, he hears sobbing near the archway of their kitchen. When he looks up, he sees his precious Percy, dressed in sky blue pajamas with brooms around it and Leo tucked under his arms, crying loudly. Draco is shocked and doesn’t move. He has no idea what had made his youngest son upset. Vaguely, he hears Harry mutter a Stasis Spell, and then he is beside the young blonde, being enveloped in strong arms.

“Hey, what made you cry, our little prince,” Draco hears Harry whisper soothingly. He lifts the four-year-old and starts rocking him.

“D-Daddy, it’s _Papa,_ ” Percy cries, burying his flushed face in Harry’s neck. “It’s New Year and it’s _Papa_.”

That shakes Draco from his stupor, and in an instant, he is beside Harry, gently brushing Percy’s fringe from his face. “I’m here, baby, I’m here. You can tell me what the matter is.” His eyes meet red-rimmed green and silver ones and Draco feels suddenly choked up with the emotions that rage through him. He missed his sons and remembers Blaise’s words. No, he can never exchange anything for this. All he wants is right here.

“You’re here. Y-you’re here, Papa. And we’ll have N’year’s breakfast. Because you’re _here_ ,” cries Percy softly, his knuckles rubbing over his eyes. Draco scoops him from Harry’s arms and presses loud kisses over his youngest son’s face. He feels Harry wrap his arms around his waist from behind him.

“P-Percy, love, I’m here. Of course, I’m here,” he whispers shakily, trying hard not to cry. He’s so overwhelmed. He realizes that this is the first time that Percy has to deal with a seriously sick family member, and he holds his son more tightly. “We’ll make breakfast, eat, watch movies, play outside with whatever game you want, then have dinner with Uncle Ron. We’ll all have fun together because we’re family, right? You like that?”

Percy nods and presses wet kisses again and again on Draco’s nose, cheeks and chin. Apart from the shaky breaths, he’s no longer crying. “P-Papa, I’m just so happy that you’re here with Daddy. I thought—I thought you were going to be so sick and stay at the hospital for many more days.” He takes in a shaky breath and says, “I was so scared. Then I saw you and I was so happy that I was already crying.”

Draco half-laughs and half-sobs, and Harry’s arms tighten around him so he feels his back pressed against a strong chest. “I love you, my little prince.”

Percy nuzzles his nose against the side of Draco’s neck and yawns. “Papa, Daddy, can you two dance again for me tonight? Just like last year.”

“It’ll be my greatest pleasure, my little popcorn,” Harry chuckles, dropping a kiss on Draco’s and Percy’s cheeks.  The latter nods sleepily; the tears have apparently tired him out. Harry transfigures a cot from a chair and Draco makes sure that Kreacher covers it with a couple of the thickest and fluffiest blankets in the Chateau before settling his son on it. He kisses his cheek once again before going back to cooking.

“Daddy?” Draco hears him sleepily call out to Harry and he bites in a smile.

“Yes, baby?” Harry replies, his voice indulgent and encouraging.

“It’s also okay for boys to cry when they’re really happy?” His question ends with a wide and loud yawn.

“Of course, my little Percy. Of course.”

Draco catches Harry’s eyes and they smile at each other.

+

This is one of the rare mornings when Scorpius doesn’t feel up for his morning runs. Instead, he is still clad in his black pajamas and sprawled on his back on his bed. He’s staring up at the ceiling, thinking about his Papa, and the mess their family seems to be in with some Muggles. He’s also found out yesterday that the American government and some students are involved.

He doesn’t know he should do about the information. His Papa has ingrained in him that though he might be a Gryffindor, recklessness and impulsiveness are not congruent to being courageous and brave. He has put that at heart, limiting the application of those traits to Quidditch, trick exam questions, and his love life. So far, it has done him well, except for the last.

The problem is… the problem is Scorpius has never encountered a situation like this: where people’s lives are at stake, where his family—the people he loves—are in danger, and where he has to put himself in the line somehow because, for the first time, there’s something he can do. His life, so far, has been about learning spells, playing Quidditch, taking care of Percy, spending time with his fathers and friends, getting into messy relationships, and dealing with fangirls. He’s never had a taste of the adventures his Dad went through during his stay at Hogwarts.

The closest he’s been with dangerous adventures is when he and Albus were kidnapped by aspiring Death Eaters seven years ago. For three months, give and take a few days, they had to take care of each other and protect one another from their captors. That has been the time when Score discovered that he has his Dad’s immunity to the Imperius Curse; they’d wanted him to torture his very ill twin with knives, but _wouldn’t_ do it. He has never been so grateful; he’s realized that there’s nothing bad in being like his father, Harry Potter. He can still be his own person even if there are similarities between them.

Score can’t forget those three months. They’ve seen Pediatric Mind Healers after their rescue, but those sessions helped him to deal, not forget entirely forget. There will be times when he’s plagued with the feeling of fear so thick in the air he can smell it, his twin coughing and trembling beside him, and the need to think fast and take in their new surroundings for possible weapons and escape routes. Even before he sorted into Gryffindor, he’s never been able to shake the need to protect, stand for, and take care of his family.

This morning, that feeling is so prominent it’s making him lightheaded and strong. He’s sixteen now; only less than a year before he’s at the age of majority. He knows that he can’t let his parents deal with this alone. They’re not _kids_ anymore.

Mind made up, Scorpius jumps out of his bed and goes to his desk. His NEWT preparation books and guides, parchment, and drawings are strewn around it; he’s distracted himself with studying and strategizing for Quidditch last night. Now that he has a plan, he doesn’t need to.

He finds a fresh sheet of parchment and sits down in his desk. He reaches for his self-inking quill and thinks. _Really_ , how does one write to someone you’ve barely even met? Score agonizes over the right opening address and the right balance between pleasantries and straightforwardness needed in the letter. After ten minutes, he thinks _Blast it_ and starts to write.

_Hello Ashford,_

_I’ve heard you say yesterday that my father have refused to join your cause against a group of Muggles. I’d like to know what this cause is about and what this deal with the Muggles is. Your view and account of things will be very much appreciated._

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Happy new year._

_Scorpius Malfoy-Potter_

Score cringes as he blows the letter to dry, rolls it, and seals it. He’s always been an awkward letter-writer, unlike Albus. He knows that this letter and the nonexistence of subtlety can make his Malfoy ancestors sob, but actually, it’s always better in times like this to get to the point, right?

He doesn’t know where the letter should go, but his owl, Hermes, true to his name, has always been good in finding people and delivering letters to long distances. He whistles for him and surely, the flapping of wings can be heard. Hermes, an eagle owl with white and russet plumage, lands on his perch in front of his desk and hoots proudly.

“Good morning, bud,” Score says, tying the scroll of parchment on the bird’s outstretched leg. “Up for a long search and travel, today?”

Hermes looks at him with beady, black eyes piercingly, as if insulted that his master would even wonder about his readiness. He hoots in a dignified way but nonetheless pecks at the treats Score offers him.

“Take this to Calliope Ashford, and don’t leave until she gives you a reply,” he says. Hermes nips his fingers as an answer then takes flight.

As he watches his owl fade into the sunrise, Score suddenly feels a stab of guilt in operating secretly from his brothers and parents. He ignores it, though, reasoning to himself that he’s not doing _anything_ yet. He’s just asking for information, which is totally innocent. Despite the nature of the information he covets.

+

That night, during New Year’s dinner with the Uncle Ron, Rose, Hugo, and Lavender Brown, the Ashfords arrived.

It’s been a great surprise, really. One moment, Scorpius is trying to avoid the hurt and offended glances that Rosie throws at him. He’s feeling forever grateful that Albus and Jamie are being talkative in engaging the people in the table in conversation. That way, at least, he can drown his presence in the sound of voices and avoid his godfather’s daughter.

She does look nice, actually, in her yellow, muggle sundress and plaited, red hair. Score could have complimented her, but he does not, because that will raise such unnecessary hopes in his childhood friend. Rose is not just _it_. Kissing her months ago has felt like kissing her sister or close cousin, and Scorpius knew then that it wasn’t going to work.

“Score, Score, Score.” A small hand tugs at his shirt sleeve and Score looks down to see that Percy has left his chair to go to him. Automatically, he lifts his little brother and places him on his lap.

Percy looks cute in his thick maroon jumper; his hair is more mussed than ever, and he is sucking a candied apple in his hand. His expression, though, is troubled.

“What’s the matter, Lil?” Score asks slightly pinching Percy’s chubby cheek.

“Why is Rosie angry with you?” he whispers, lips in a slight pout. “She’s been looking at you like she’s angry, Score.”

Scorpius suppresses the urge to flinch and glance at Rose.

“Well, we had a misunderstanding, Lil. Don’t worry, though, Rosie will understand in time and we’ll be okay again. Yeah?” It is a lame explanation; he really feels bad for using it on his four-year-old brother, but there they go.

“Rose never plays with me,” Percy pouts. His eyes look so sad and Score feels an ache for his little brother. This is one of the reasons why he and Rose will not work out, he thinks. Rose is a kind-hearted, intelligent, and talented girl, but she never really connected with Percy. Scorpius knows that that will not do at all.

“Well…” He thinks of something to say.

“But, but,” Percy kneels on his lap so he can frame Score’s face in two sweet and sticky fingers. “But… if she’ll make you happy the way Papa and Daddy does to each other, I’ll be a good boy and not complain, Score.”

Score cringes. Beside him, Jamie chokes on his drink. He glances at his Papa, sat at the end of the table, who is smiling amusedly at him. Albus saves him from the awkward situation when he lifts Percy from his lap and starts talking to him about getting the cookies from the oven. They leave the table and Score looks up and meets Rosie’s eyes, which reflect hurt.

Scorpius wonders how on earth he’ll be able to handle relationships if he can’t even handle break-ups smoothly. He clears his throat and tries to pay attention to the house-elves’ excellent treacle tart laid-out before him. After a few moments, he cannot take it anymore; he looks at his Papa, trying to communicate with his eyes.

_I don’t know what I’m doing, Papa._

Of course, his Papa will get it.

+

The laboratory is decorated in white and steel and is painstakingly modern. There is only one computer here, a wide screen that is as large as the wall. It displays different graphs and charts that change in color, height, and size simultaneously. In the middle of the room is a wide steel table; on it are piles of folders and documents, petri-dishes, charts, and test tubes. Because it’s New Year, only one woman is present for the shift. She’s currently bent down on a large laboratory journal, making notes.

A hole appears on one of the white walls behind her. At the sound of a slight cough, she straightens up and turns around.

“Maestro. Good evening,” she says as smoothly as she can. She keeps her posture as perfectly as she can muster in front of one of the heads of their cause.

“Doctor Ashley, how is our little love, hmm? Everything going well?” the Maestro asks lowly, his hand tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ears. She blushes at her boss’ touch.

“Yes, Maestro. His vitals are normal, and I think our assumptions on how wizards’ bodies work are correct. During the week-long monitoring, we’ve gathered data that are substantial help to our current projects,” she answers excitedly. She walks towards the laboratory journal and starts explaining at their team’s discoveries so far. “Wizard’s bodies are like ours, it seem, Maestro and—“

She stops when he holds up a hand to stop her chatter. “We proceed with the next stage, Doctor Ashley. You have to activate our little pet for our little love.”

The doctor’s brown eyes widen at the order. “Immediately?” she asks in almost awe.

“Yes, immediately. We’re running out of time. It seems that our little friends have discovered our plans, too. Sneaky magic people, they are.” He chuckles, but it is anything but pleasant.

“Okay.” Ashley swallows. “Okay, Maestro. I will notify my teammates immediately and then—“

“No, Doctor,” the Maestro chuckles again. “I meant _now_. I want us to move on with our little project with our lovely Draco _now_.”

“Now. Sir, yes, sir.” Ashley’s pallor is ignored, and the Maestro watches as she moves towards the large projection on the wall. She starts typing, her fingers flying across the panel.

“Agent Healey and the others have been prepared. Just do your job now,” Maestro says in encouragement.

Ashley’s hand is trembling slightly as she enters the final string of numbers that will set their plan moving. She ignores how cold she’s feeling.

+

“I don’t feel good about this,” Calliope whispers to no one in particular in the examination room. She’s been studying her research team’s reports regarding the dagger and the memories of the child they’ve had during the attack on Draco Malfoy-Potter.

All the reports do not reveal to her how everything—nitrogen, a child, a dagger—fit together with Draco in the large scheme of the Muggles’ plans. There’s no story that Cal can discern from them, and this always makes her so uncomfortable. She’s always been frustrated with incomplete jigsaw puzzle pieces.

Despite her team’ examinations, no memories or information have been elicited from the child. Her mind is a total blank. The dagger is nothing special, except that it had been infused with pure liquid nitrogen and it had dents and little craters along its surface.

Hunter, who is with her in the room, approaches and places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “The examinations are still ongoing, Clandestine. Just wait a bit yeah?”

“We should have found something in the initial reports, Hunter,” Cal whispers distractedly. She spreads the papers on the table. Still, they don’t make sense.

“This is not our only agenda, Cal. Remember that. Don’t stress yourself over the attack, yeah? Especially now that your father has called for monitoring on Ambiguous back again,” Hunter reasons out. He’s aware of how Cal can obsess over their work in the Project. However, with the amount that they have in their plates right now, they can’t afford their head putting all her effort and energy on a particular family. The Underground’s operations are worldwide; it’s _imperative_ that Calliope doesn’t lose sight of the bigger picture.

“There’s no narrative, Hunter. I _want_ a narrative on this. What are they planning? What will they do next? They now know that we know them. We have to _catch up_ ,” Cal mutters tersely. She shakes her head and takes deep breaths.

“We’ll find your narrative, Clandestine. Just… wait, yeah?” Hunter says, massaging the tension from her shoulders. “The Chair is very pissed with you for blowing the cover and acting without the Council’s knowledge. Just lie low for a moment, okay?”

“We’re a Board. No one is more powerful—“ Cal starts to mutter, but Hunter cuts her off.

“We’re still inside Phantasma’s premises, Cal. Keep your rebellious words to yourself for a while, yeah?” His smile is tensed though. He does agree with Cal, but trying to instigate disorder in Phantasma is the last thing they need right now.

Cal just nods and turns her eyes back on the reports. “I hope we sort this out before we have to go to Hogwarts.”

“Hmm. But going to Hogwarts is good.”

“Yeah. Good.” For the first time, Cal smiles. “It means we’re moving on to the next phase of our plans.”

“Speaking of Hogwarts,” Hunter says, looking at her rather mischievously. “What are you planning with your pincer-wielding letter-sender?”

Cal rolls her eyes at her friend’s very weak joke. “Really, Hunter? His name’s Scorpius. I haven’t replied to his letter, though. I still have it with me.”

“You gonna tell him anything?”

“I’m gonna ignore him.”

“Really? Shame. He’s cute, Calliope.”

“ _Hunter!”_ Lavender-colored eyes widened at him. “Crux will kill you for trying to go after his amour’s twin. Also, we’re not telling him anything about the Project. He’s not that important, and his father’s hasn’t joined us yet. He can wait.”

“Hmm.” Hunter pouts at her, but gets ignored.

+

 

After New Year’s dinner with the Weasleys, while charming the dishes into the dishwasher, Draco feels a sudden jolt in his heart. He drops on the nearest chair, breathing heavily. All of a sudden, it feels like he’s run a hundred miles. It doesn’t make sense because he’s been feeling well a while ago.

“Is Master Draco, being okay?” Winky squeaks, handing him a glass water with shaking fingers.

Draco takes the glass gratefully. “Yes. This is nothing, Winky. Don’t worry.”

“Winky insists that Master Draco join Master Harry and the young masters in the family room. You is being pale, Master.” Winky’s big orbs reflect her worry and urge to fuss over him.

“I will, Winky. I just… need a moment.” He’s still breathing heavily, which Draco tries his best not to be scared about.

The elf still eyes him suspiciously, but nods. She proceeds to continue Draco’s work with the dishes.

“Winky? Promise me that you won’t tell Harry and the boys about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took so long. I'm so sorry! I hope that it won't happen again.


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